dosenherz:

i. hamlet in a fist-fight with the ghost of his mother.

ii. the sun and the moon kissing over the world’s sad, old hands.

iii. wrinkles in the freshly ironed skirt because your arm can’t focus long enough on heat outside of your own long limbs and something has to be the better rebel.

iv. a beast un-called, holds the strings of what you touch to gold.

v. i don’t know what novels they wrote about the definition of Mauerbauertraurigkeit for this brand new generation, yet: i see your hands in shreds twitching and fluttering behind the bricks you carry around like childhood blankets, you forgot that people smash like sports cars on your walls; how many more layers of sad does it take? how many scars?

- five advertisements you nailed onto your room inside my chest and how the neon light is never just that cold.