The Fabric of our Souls

is a bit morbid, isn’t it?” I say as I caress one of the dry petals. “I think it’s because it makes me happy to see something that was once so beautiful in life be just as pretty, if not more so, in death. Forever beautiful.”

“You’re right. That is fucking morbid.” I turn to look at him and he catches my chin gently between his cold fingers. “But you wouldn’t be Wynn Coldfox if your mind wasn’t such a dark, lovely, wicked thing.”

“I think it’s because it makes me happy to see something that was once so beautiful in life be just as pretty, if not more so, in death. Forever beautiful.”

And that’s okay. It’s okay to be small and hidden away. Most gems are.

Yeah, her soul is like chiffon, with plenty of tattered rips and tears. The fabric of our souls is thin and worn. We must be gentle and love tirelessly.

She’s an autumn soul.

I’m afraid of what I can do when I’m not myself, in the brief moments when too many horrible thoughts run through my mind. This is why I hate myself. Because I do awful things to people I care about.

Maybe we can cure one another.

because no great piece of art is made without a little suffering backing it.

Your mind is a beautiful and dangerous thing, Wynn, sick as it may be. But your soul illuminates the world around you, setting all else ablaze with your inevitable anguish.

No one’s ever hugged me so desperately with their entire heart.