i am a beautiful and fucking ugly thing

washed these words;

I dreamt of a land of sand, where the wind blew through and mourned. I have swallowed suns as crowns for no single song will ever bring me back. washed these words in the slush of how easy it is to forget one’s self and find us on the pedestal, balancing these piano gravestones and God, in shaky foreign tongues. the milky cast over your eyes will not be freed by my mouth or tears or memories as together, we press fingers beneath the ivory keys or the nerves of the cross still on your breasts.