⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
mouthful of white hot fire, tongue coated
in poison, ragged nails painted in my own
blood; there’s a hunger in me, something
vicious, a thirst to be celestial, GODLY,
divine— and yet⠀ ⠀ ✧ ⠀ ⠀ 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 . . .
⠀⠀⠀
standing at the edge of a busy crowd, too-bright eyes jumping from one person to the next; looking for something, not even blinking.
ignoring all the nervous glances thrown their direction and the way people skittishly move to avoid getting too close to them.
mood.
"ain't yer usual brand," blowing some smoke to the side, really mulling over it, throwing in after some thought: "gimme a please an' i'll consider it."
they let out a strangled groan, but whether it's dredged up by the pain or the sound of his voice is hard to tell. maybe it's from both. they glance down at the crumpled pack in their hand, counting how many were left.
about five, which is plenty... 𝘪𝘧 they were in a sharing +
"can i bum one off ya?"
this wasn't the first time he'd seen joanne more fucked than he was on a tuesday night— this was the /norm/. still, he keeps a distance, chewing at his nails to replace the itch for a smoke.
sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette.
they look like hell, covered head to toe in all sorts of filth and shit. there's a knife lodged deep in their side that they've elected to ignore for the time being.