Maybe a better way to drink me in is by consuming the themes that call themselves to me. Fragments of me that glow in the dark. Some jagged, some soft, all inevitable

I do not chase themes. They devour me, burn themselves into my skin. For some reason, I have a penchant for flowers blooming between fractures, for sharp objects that beg for skin, for covering my face and making a fucking mess. And no matter what I do, some things never change