zwecat

& you asked for a 24 hour dennys and a plate of pancakes you asked for a fork & that perfect postpunk imagery of a pale boy sitting alone at 2 in the morning at a 24 hour diner, morosely licking syrup from his fingertips don't you tell me about the hole in your chest & don't you talk about the hollow at the base of your throat, don't because i know a boy whose heart beats so loudly that i can hear it from my house & i know a boy who drags in every breath through lips pressed tight together so please, dear, don't talk about your heart when there are others that have shattered in my hands