Poetry for the Devil.


6. (un)apologetic


"sweetheart," he tells me - like i'm nothing but sugar and glittered water, as if my bones are made of candy and will rot his teeth if he bites hard enough - "sweetheart, now darling, i'm not trying to insult, i promise, but it's just how life is." and by life he means the alternate universe we live in, the fogged glass dirtied by the blood from our fingertips as we claw at this glass ceiling pressing against our cheeks, gagging for a world in which our eyes are the first things they look at. a world in which our laughter is whole and the bruises on our chests are skin-coloured and painless to touch. a world where we love the night and the stars that guide us home, hand in feather-soft hand. a world where my trembling fingers do not close over a stanley knife whenever they stare at me like that. a world where i do not have to bite my tongue until it bleeds, a world where the smiles i switch on in their presence are not hollow and empty. a world where someday i am not ashamed to take up space and do not apologise with every spluttering breath left inside my paper-thin lungs.

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