The Last Supper. Jennifer Walkup

I won't tell anyone about the diagnosis.     Not my mother or sister. Certainly not Jake. Maybe not even Steve.     I'll just slide on the mask I've been sliding on for ages, even if inside, I'll be rot, rot, rotting away like an orange, mushy and spoiled deep down in the middle, tough, thick skin outside. To the world, there'll be no bruises, no soft spots. 🍓 Запрещённое в соцсетях искусство — t.me/kartiny/5953     No significant depressions.     I wash dishes in screaming hot water while I wait for the dryer…