doodi3wut

i don't know how the layer of white still manages to break me, so simple and clean cut. my shaking hands- the ones that strangers once held and announced their empty-hearted love to- are wrinkled with lines of someone else's pain and they reach out to hold onto something physical, something known, but instead are taken by a burning cold that doesn't forgive. cool, like skin long dead, it stings until it burns and then it burns until you can't feel anymore. as if you could ever feel, as if any feeling was ever identified as real and there, not like alcohol in their breath and stranger's hands- cracked with their sins- reaching and tainting and