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oh, i’m scared of it. looking down into how much i like you and knowing it only grows from there. like i am huddled beyond the safe point; too far already. what am i supposed to say? you were never one for poetics. i can’t bear it, it only seeks to swallow me, and all that big raw heart of mine with it.
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Lucy Keating, Dreamology
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lorde - hard feelings/loveless
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i am just thinking about how in june eighteen months ago i said “this is how it goes. a boy with pretty eyes and a soft touch smiles at me and i call it love” and one year later i said "i hear your call in the middle of june and the winter night is cold and even a forest fire wouldn’t save us.” and july me said "i spent june in the lining of your coat, soaking skin and blue hues, sickness so loud i drowned in the fever dream” and November me said "june last year something in me broke apart for you and i’ve spent eighteen months trying to get it back but i don’t know where it is or why i lost it or why i ever buried it in your hands in the first place” and january me said "june was the worst, when i tore myself up and i really believed it was something worth breaking for”.
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Excerpts for a 1920’s newspaper during the Spanish Flu
