Ï̷̢̼͕̳̻̤͙͋͂̏̾͑͝ ̴̧̧͍͕̳͍̝̺̙͓̔͌̀̆̇̽̂̈̕͠L̸̨̢̺̲̟̮̘̃͝ǫ̸̝̑̾̈́̑̐͜v̵͇͉͍̯̜͍̊̄͛͑͒͋͂e̸̲͋̎̈́ ̴̨̞̑̈M̴̨̨̻̳̠̩̞͙͆͑͋̈́͝y̸̨̧̠͇͈̻̦̓͐́̃͜͠ ̵̜̺̤̝̜̌̀̂̎͌͘R̷͇̽͗̓̀́̇e̷̛̛͕͖̤̝̮͛̒͆̓̎͜p̶̩̈́͑͑̔̈̒l̴̡̈́̀y̸̛̞̼̝̟̥̬̫̞̠͋̒͆͌͐́̄͋̈́͜ ̵̳̜͎̻͚̹̜̮̉͊̍̑͗́͘G̵̛̜̞̰̝̻̥̯̭̅̈́̆̿̍͛͜͠͝͠ṵ̸̢͕̰͙͙̣̦͑ẏ̴̞̫̀͐̋͌̀̌̓̕͜͝s̵̭̱̲͚͓̜̻͇͈͊͛̎̉̌̆̍͠

I’m giving away my innocence for meaningless words. I’m showing you all my soft parts, all the pieces I hide. l used to be loved and held and now I’m nothing at all. I’m a girl on your screen. I’m your favorite fantasy. The shame makes me itch. If I close one eye you almost look like him. If I close both my eyes you almost feel the same.

I cradle dead things. I kiss them over and over, say it’s CPR, say I’m saving them. I’m the dog in the gutter, I’m the rain on its fur. I’m stealing lines from other people, telling you how I want it. What about sweetness? There’s green in my eyes. A birth mark on my arm. You don’t ask so l offer on my own. I need something crazy to keep me sane. I need something out of reach.

I’m the most devout girl in America. I don’t believe in God so I throw myself into you. I try to decipher what you say like pages of the Bible and believe that you love me, that you can save me. I’d do anything for you, wage wars, burn heretics. Maybe I’m a prophet. Maybe I see something no one else can see (visions - not delusions). I pray that you will reach out, touch me. I ask if it’s too late. I get no answer.

Rae Wayland loves Instagram and has been described as “harboring a deep and unimaginable melancholy.” She has never gotten over anything ever.

Read more of her writing on her Substack.