It hurts to move. The thorns in your muscles drag against your skin's defenseless underside, already ruby-red and raw; an unwary stretch opens you up, spilt salty treasures staining your clothes. You're always sticky or flaking, rusty, dried blood falling like dandruff.
a moth which writes
- she/her & it
- maybeelse.site/
see website for future presences
website (with rss!)
maybeelse.site/tumblr
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