My name is Phoebe.
17/01/2012
8.
I invite the whale that ate my mother
to my party. I build a birthday cake
our of wet black sand.
The whole night is a crab that crawls
across my cold feet and then scurries away.
Later, I get a card in the mail that says Sorry.
Sorry about everything.
Every year I pretend
I’m not the one who sent it.
— From “The Whale” by Zachary Schomburg (via prettierinthedark)
(via jaimemurraysboobs)