wounds of atlas

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wounds of atlas


when we all sighed into the tight space night, the world shrugged, connection lost here and there. somehow, I believe that it's possible to withstand all of the universe's bruises - I've felt them grace my skin and heart in unlucky points of breath.

bury bury, contusions heal; scars don't. paint pink a guilty nose that detects unrequited lovesongs, cover eyes that wander around his form with flower petals. dream of his touch blessing bruises into a rosy blush, of subtle bloody rush.

such a big great world out there, pity it likes to make a home in me. there's no room left save for a dynamic love/hate relationship with pain and a bitter romantic. buttering up sentences so that they'll sound better, but we all know that they're just daggers poised upon the author's own heart.

took refuge in guilty thought of saturated saturdays that bled into a clamped twilight, grainy silhouettes parallel; close-never touching. still intersections reek of burning grass, thunderbolts still spiraling out toward unseeking saints.

he feels like he's holding the world, he wants to collapse into you. tired and weak, blinking and bleak. erasing burdens is insurmountable but you could blend them into sunsets for just one day as he finds solace in your arms.

atlas, whose neck is breaking bearing the burdens of the earth, sees the sky expand into your eyes. he begs you to swallow him in.

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