shards of mirror on the floor, but I'm standing in the puddle looking down at myself through ripples. like a god. aching. they hold their white coats tight to their chest to house those fast-beating hearts. as if I don't know.
This man is a retired priest and I am supposed to just send him my play with a whole ass song about how two women didn’t make it past the kitchen light because they fucked on the counter what do I do