in another life, i'll be the creator of your sorrow. i'll be buried in green cloth in the cavity in your chest that i will dig myself, my nails kept dirtied and stained by the soil of your earthen lungs, and i will never, ever, claw my way out. i'll hide there even after the world ends, even when the last constellation passes by the earth, even when the universe collapses, and even when the gods begin to reveal themselves. i'll snuggle close to the beating of your heart and you'll tell me a bedtime story, of stars tethered to each other, never to be separated by anything, not even by the pull of time. and you'll trace circles into the skin of your thighs, and you'll say something profound, maybe something about someday becoming those very stars ourselves. and i'll cry, because maybe you feel too real, and why would god play with me like this? why would you hurt me this way?
