I have experienced many times the feeling of wanting to be in the place of something else, no matter how humiliating. Now I want to be a piece of machine sewn cloth or leather, crimpled and warily warm from your sleepy hugs. Can my fingers mold honest patterns, the way thin cloth and interior linings make crease marks on your limbs? My mother had warned me of the sickening pain of unrequited love, even more sickening in the realization of sharing it with other muggles near and afar. But I will fold creases to the clothing of your joints, darling I will.
Aug 23, 2013
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