Whose whispers made the wind and whose blisters the earth? Whose vein is the roots of all trees and whose eyes are the sight of light? Who dances and there is creation? Who sings and there is cohesion?
Your skin became an altar With sacrifice upon sacrifice presented to God.
Last week, I tried out black nail-polish but my skin tone doesn’t bring it out at all. That's technically your fault. Sometimes I get a little pissed that I'm not as fair as mum. I feel like night at day; I guess that makes two of us: It's not that bad; I love putting on my brothers' clothes... I seem to be living the dream around deep voices and crooked moustaches. it doesn't hurt to be different sometimes.