He. Will. Know.

I tried my language of words. It was met with derision. It's time to pack the big guns. After all she'll never leave me. So fuck you and watch how your words hurt. I told you. I warned you. I held you. You hurt me. Over and over. I'm isolated with my twin. We are never apart and we will show you.

That Fickle Thing With Feathers...

I've been lower than low lately and so I think it's time to just pop in probably the poem that is the most valuable to me of all:

346 - Emily Dickinson:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me.