epigraph.

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⠀mother, my hands are not my own. the ones I have are someone else's - they are useless to me. my old ones have been removed, and these old man's hands have been grafted on in their place.

⠀i took a flower the other day and rolled its stem between these lumps i now have for fingers, trying to woo some sensation into them, but it was hopeless.

⠀my feet, too, are different. i'm convinced they're not my old ones. in must happen whilst I'm asleep, when the shadows deepen and the forces of the inbetween come alive.

⠀i have walked a lot. i have covered many miles, and i know each blister and crack that lurks between my toes. they are not mine. i am sure of it.

⠀they are working at me, changing me piece by piece. it will end with my eyes, because when they replace them they will have my soul.


⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀━ falling out of heaven,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀john lynch.


















𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃 │ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 ¹ [✔]Where stories live. Discover now