maybe i've spent all my secrets, but i've found that the ones who do too much talking are often the ones with nothing to say. do i have anything left to say?

mirrors, mirrors, glass and mercury. this hurts no one but myself. & i like it this way.

terrifying in the way that you touched my insides but didn't do a thing. cold & curious fingertips that tickled at my bones, but your expression was resolute as though you knew; this wouldn't be the last time.

i swear it i swear it
i swear it was your fault.
wasn't i? wasn't i yours?
your fault?

[my procrastination has returned with quite a vengence. yes, crime fiction tomorrow. may the heavens turn on their foundations and the plagues of egypt haunt kensington for the next fortnight.]