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John Keats, from a letter to Fanny Brawne, featured in The Selected Letters of John Keats

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you're burrowed somewhere deep inside the ugly mass of my brain, protruding barbs into the delicate flesh, making you impossible to shake. I dont understand you, though I think you dont either. Our fondness was so delicate and intense, you were so desperate, waiting for this, whatever it was. It was so new for you, you hungered for it, my affection, my touch. I dont think anyone has ever wanted me that way, maybe thats one of the reasons I still think about you. I held back so much, your fear something I never wanted to feed, to let it be more than you could stomach. I wished for my touch to hold more meaning, to linger, trace the shape of you, and push back all the streams of shame that seaped through the cracks of your skin. Caring for you was such a beautifully painful thing, I hunger for it when the light drips away from the sky, and my bed feels cold. Sometimes I wonder if you do as well

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and nicotine

Nikos Kazantzakis, from a letter featured in The Selected Letters of Nikos Kazantzakis

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i dreamt about you last night, it was the first time in two weeks

two peaceful weeks

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everything is wrong, the air tastes wrong, the streets sound wrong. I feel wrong

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im in the back of an uber, the car is black, small. Its warm in a way that penitrates the primal comfort of your brain. The smell inside is familiar, sweet and tangy like the lemon grass my mum grew in Sydney. I never want to leave, the in-between of my life and responsibilities I get both further and closer to. I can be tired in the in-between

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Rotten luck

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i come with mud

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A book made by Eliza Telfer in 1868.

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Malibu fire, 1958

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I imagine walking, aimlessly and endlessly away from them. Scissors teasing the thread that ties me to this family. I imagine walking away from everyone, from the friends that glue the ugly parts of my brain together. I don't want to run away to be someone else, to start fresh with new people, I want to be nobody. I want to just exist inside myself, a stranger to everyone but me

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directionless anger weaving through the empty air of misplaced words - you look tired, you always look tired. I use to feel so small next to you, despite the little height difference. A lack of substance and passion, but the marrow in my bones was made of the compassion you so desperately lacked. Ego does not live in my mirror, I doubt it ever will, but I am kinder than most (that's something)

perhaps I am the prize