.he splits hearts likeoranges in themorningsinks his teeth intoripened flesh, andleaves nothing but therind, too hard toswallow
.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
.horrors prey ondreams, and sleep cando nothing about ita lamb straysfrom the flock;a wolf grins
.a tattoo for everysin, a poppyten yearslater- a meadow
.she calls down angelsjust to burn theirrighteous wings,to see them rise thenfall, those flailingdovesshe tells them, thisis what it's liketo be humanand they say judgementwill arrive for you, mygirl, you will becleansed by burninglightand i strike another match
.the cat keepsleaving dead meaton my doormat,a pile of bones,bloody and rawhe wants me toknow what i'mwalking into, hewants me to knowjust what i am
.i don't wantto push updaisies,be the bearerof bad newsfor a yearningheart,he lovesme not
.fistsclench; i brush myheart frommy sleeve, thenditch thesweater
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
.all we are is cheapmetaphorsgoldfish drowning inthe ocean, birds that forget how toflap their wings, mid-flight
.she carries more mistakes thanthere are stars, behind hereyesa lifetime ofconstellations,a human supernova
.we are one and thesame, that old willow andme, we stand tall with thescars that life gave us -with the names of loverscarved deep in our limbs,and old burns from mydads cigarettes
.you are dead and buriedsix feet under yourself,still feeling the way you didwhen you were seventeenand when you bathe, you stillkeep your head under thewater, wrists upturned, redeyes open, trying to drown yourselfout
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.the sea spitsme back ontothe shore -the waves saythis is not theright tide, theright time
.crescent moon- silverhook in the sky fishing forstars; you catch my eye
.time will only heal yourwounds on the conditionyou'll let him prise themopen again, upon return
.a spider weaveshis silver lies on myfront door, and iwalk right in;the flies laugh
Our DutyWe swallowed the path homeBecause we were hungry,Though starving is an ongoingStory, an empty bagDancing in the streets,Full of an unfastened voiceWalking through the house,Wind unchained, heart admonished.Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,That sleeping boat content to followThe vacant waves, intervalsOf dying that we dare not interrupt,And we watch the kind ear shrinkingFrom our charcoal docks; heavenWith a full stomach crawls away.This is what we were put here for.
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressfor four days, becauseI am sick, exquisitelysick --black and gold, your drunkdimestore Nefertiti. Awhite stain announcesitself, a muddy star:she coughedhere. Undo yourself,those sallow words you drink,let the silk fall loose. I've gota face like dirty laundryand burial grounds --What I touch becomesunwell. I wear my hairlike it pains me,blow kisseslike a little girlsucking her teethat cars, the caked littletombs of sugar that crumble,nakedunder the hot milkof the sun.
lung canceri will die with your name on my lipsbecause there is nothing else i'll need to say.you are my coffin, my funeral pyre.as my bones disintegrate, popping and snapping,you will greedily swallow my ashesuntil nothing is left of me but secondhand smoke.i've danced with you, love, across hospital tile,the scent of antiseptic cloying as valentine's chocolate.you dipped me into unconsciousness,and i willingly closed my eyes.the intrusion of your scalpel teeth no longer scares me.you, my rigor mortis soul mate, always take me under.your tent of frostbitten shelter pulls me down, an anchor,while i gag on pills too abstract to save me.forgive me, lungs, of my cigarette abuse,but i've found happiness in a reaper's cloak.i find comfort in these carcinogens.i've made my nest in a swaying tree,my body destroyed by the nauseous rocking.they smile at me with pity in their eyes,scribbling nonsense on those jaw-like clipboards.their crisp, stark white world still has faith in me,yet
deconstructing in your sighsiit’s not like they said it would be easy.when you look at meopen-mouthed and dewey-eyed,negligent; and your laughterslurs together like runoff sewage,and your voice is drowning ina certain kind of sadness, the onereserved for the faultswe never asked for; and you sigh,heavy, like I am back sitting inyour throat between your adam’s appleand the truths you dare not speak;you pity me.iiit’s that very same weakness whichdelivered me naked and tremblinginto the skin of a personI never was; pitydoes not require action, disappointmentdoes not take away from the burning human needto overcome oneself. I’m sick of livingtomorrow regretting the person I am today;I drained her all out in a fit of desperation,and filled myself through with vodka gigglesand scribbled lines and you, darling, you,who fears nothing but the skeleton girlsleeping quietly in your closet.
Systematickids like him are made ofturbulence & fragmentationhe is quicksilver & vitriccanteen skull thatbrims with boric acidhe scribes apothegms inaniline colors& the words are 50/50sclerotin to discontentment.
salti of you,such a beautiful mess, intertwined and overrun.your arms, copper lips, citrus,a lovin' with a twist.my summer away at space pirate camp,i took to howling with you the first thunder of june;flesh, storms,the hunt for human brains, Maybe Zombies Just Want To Hug? - 6 lies to tell yourself if shipwrecked.i can't explain the feelings i get.wakewalking, blue dream before i sleep: the soul cupping rice (glass figurines, lamp light eyes).my fear is milk two sugars. drink drink drink beneath it all, floral growth, silver spoons, featherweight fox teeth, losing my spine, strange preoccupations with skin, idle... maps.
Paper-Thin Promisesthe first time I caught sight of yourglistening, marble eyes,I decided you disgust me.I hate you the way I hate perfection:merciless, like the snap of mantis jaws.every fact of you is pretentious,held high like you raise a middle finger.You, the artist, always sculpting things,tried to squeeze my malleable heart like white clayand stash it in your pocket to rattle with stones.paint me an unflinching self portrait, my dear:this skyscraper of a boy shaking with anticipationto build and destroy, build and destroy.you sink in tooth and talon at first mention of beauty,love-biting Aphrodite as though you were equals.you're a statue, a prison,a tasteless reproduction of a child's Heavenbut you are no museum.you may hang yourself in gilded frames,forcing masses to silence with obscurity,but that does not make you a hallowed hall.no, I fear you're no Metropolitan.you look at me, daring to think you understand.your words trickle from my lips like a waterfallas you tell m
i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinmetallic, halting, smudged vibratowavering note stretched out far beyondthe edge of the universe tucked in your front pocketbreathing out in time with your heartbeats.All along the wall I find notebook pagesold teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirlingwhile you sit in the lean of the willow treeand watch the play that is my lifechew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.You pull your scarf inand wrap the scars in burnt umberwhile the show goes onagain.
.i keep a garden ofdead leaves, their amberribs crack under myfeet, and i smilethe flowers turn theirbacks on me