⠀⠀

@promethuse   I'm actually busy taking the frogs out of my attic so I can't 

@promethuse.   
            
            and I keep forgiving you." eyes sad like finding the kitchen empty and that name you call out like yours doesn't exist. the statement makes his insides squirm, staring at the curve in the dove's neck outside the window. but he doesn't will himself into movement and certainly has no further courage to maintain eye contact. the dove and all of its representations — "how much matter does something deemed 'bad' mean if it makes me content?" releasing his bite of smoke in an opposite direction of both human and bird, vincent feels strained out. "death and life meet when we get exhausted of our bodies. everything makes me happy and I can accept death as it is!"

@promethuse.
            
            van gogh stretches out of the position of sitting on his hunches and laughter tumbles out of his body with the bump of children chasing each other. water trickles down his forehead, weighing down the hair strands. everything he is has been inherited and left out in the open for the taking. a tattered coat with a hole in the sleeve tickles his spine, roaming the home without a second chance. "to let in the wind! she's loud this evening because she wants to sing and be heard. " he stamps down the misshapen pieces of floor. his fire alarm has long been detached and there are spiderwebs lurking in the ceiling. 

@promethuse.
            
            his heart crawls into his throat. an ugly parasite. how he wishes to replace his bones with sticks and his marrow with that organized cleanliness. when he gags up his heart, they'll place it in a zoo to be scrutinized by strangers without shadows. a mutt is a mutt ... dead or alive. he lifts his head up. the church and its pews with their cleanly routines and house free of sin live in his head. he chews his gums to quit his words and thoughts from squeezing together. "I saw your hands and knew they weren't for eating." ( leaving you almost worked. LEAVING YOU ALMOST WORKED. ) "mine aren't either. I wa— I thought you'd see me." the question mats his hair and shame glows on his chest, closing his shoulders on himself, and gathering his body into one single corner. it makes him despise himself. it makes him want to be isolated. it makes him want a fever. his expression nearly works into something aggravated. "I haven't learned how to stop." the chill that drowns his body is painful.

@promethuse.
            
            "perhaps not! but doesn't it feel better to not be alone?"