Else, or close enough ✨

Looking for the designer hormones that make your arms bifurcate again and again, that bud new eyes all across your skin; the sort of hormones that make your bones creek in the wind and flowers grow from the ruins of your mind—the kind of exogenous hormones which, ill content with merely pretending to be endogenous, stretch questing tendrils out into the world, changing it just a bit more as each injection burns in your thigh; cracking reality's shell to let angels in.