For some reason, in all my favourite movies, all the moms are dead.
I was in sixth grade when I realized that I thought there was something beautiful about pain, and I hated myself for that.
I dream that I am Adam and he is Eve and I pluck this blue-eyed wonder from my ribs. Somehow, he is all heart and no bone and I would give every piece of me to make him happy. I dream of angering God and I wake up.
I am not screaming, I am the scream.
Maybe home is not a rainbow, but a storm. Maybe home is accepting you forgot your rain jacket and letting the cold seep into your skin and awakening something, something, that lives within all of us.