16 Oct 17 | 11:03pm

do not sit in empty seats on streetcars after dusk.

(others are already sitting there)

do not disturb the air that shimmers around
park benches.

(they may be waiting for their lover/s)

alert the crosswalks. let the quiet streets know
you are passing by with the press of a button.

(you don’t want your soul to be hit by
one of their vehicles)

 

— when you take care of ghosts, they will take care of you —

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for the broken king in the golden cage;

pale hands grip the countertop until knuckles are white and fingertips numb. he sees himself as broken and ruined, as a dark being that won’t measure up to anything unless he moulds himself into the way the world would love him best. his mind is a blue sky free of clouds; his metal heart is coated in age-old rust.

fair skin like fair hair like faded eyes like bright eyes and golden hair and glowing skin — he does not realize he has always been golden. his heart thrums in its gilded cage, believing that it cannot leave in fear of being more fragile than he thought. his golden soul is troubled with its shine, for it needs more than elbow grease to radiate pure light. why must you weep tears made of black tar for a heart that is only temporarily oxidized, Golden King?

why do you lessen your value where you are worth the most?