These Beautiful, Broken Things [Or: Snippets From the Thoughts of a Lost Cause]

There’s a thunderstorm in the attic and it’s leaking through the floor. Please turn off the radio, I can’t take anymore static.

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I lay here rotting - letting the leaves take over, roaming and romancing, caressing the last tendrils of life that leak from my body.

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You cannot divide by zero but that doesn’t stop me from taking everything I can get from the nothing you give.

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I want to lie in the middle of the road and scream until my lungs collapse but you say I’m not allowed that it’s too dangerous that I could get hurt I nod and say okay and do it anyway.

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That’s quite a collection of broken hearts you have there.

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Your hands are cold.