“I butterfly it like trout. Slide my knife through the mountain ridge of little bones. Lay it flat. Turn it over and over. And yes, I cried cleaning what we had. Found that exhaustion is looking hard for the hesitation in your voice like it is biological specimen. Or evidence. Like you becoming another thing not loving me back is part of some terrible crime scene.”
— astagesetforcatastrophe, butterfly the messages (via astagesetforcatastrophe)