I want your thoughts in a jar, because they're so pretty.
They're like little butterflies, except their wings are
chewed and some are missing heads. They're still free
though, they'd be perfect on my desk at home. Maybe then I
can find peace. 

Maybe if I open my veins my heart can breathe. I don't know,
I haven't tried it yet. I'm slowly carving a knife out of
bone though - it takes time but it will be the perfect
extension of my hand. I can slice my flesh like paint on
canvas. It'll look pretty in time I'm sure.

I'd take a photo but it wouldn't look like me. It'd look
like some mutant girl who doesn't really exist. Am I a girl?
Am I human? More human than human, if humanity didn't make
me physically sick. At least the nausea gives me a crutch to
lean on when I return home.

Physics is just words on paper, but space and time stretch
beyond ink. Ink the colour and depth of desecrated galaxies,
paper of the stretched skin of gods. The gods died when they
realised that nothing is real. Too bad, the stories were
pretty.

The headless butterflies are in my brain again, but I think
they're being sinfully murdered by the monsters of my mind.
They like the dark and have a fetish for wings. I should
have fetched that jar sooner.