.sooner or laterwe'll fall throughthe trapdoor of death
.you break freefrom the grip ofthe oceanjust to die inthe arms of the shorefrom exhaustion
.love like thunder;make yourself known
.i feel in a languagei don't understand,and the wings of the bird in my kitchen, theywon't get to feel the sky anymore -and sometimes doesn't it feel good?to put two fingers round the neckof a flower andsnap,hear the petals scream fortheir withering limbs,then start choking(instinct)
.in the bodyof a dead womani am aliveand kicking
.the rabbits twitchin their sleep;they dreamof red bitten neckswet with spit,the birds dream of their eggscrackedand runny -the mice dream of hearingthat tabby cat screamas the teeth of life ripitwide open
.i said death,death is a closet;let's all just hangourselves up and keepthe place tidy -
.i remember the springwhen you did not growand our arms unfurledfor no one
.dig lifejust to get buried
.i have lovedunafraid;i have dancedto the music of torturei can forget the rest
.sometimes faith slowlyprises open our ribsdecides to slip outquietlyand unseen
.what doesn't kill youcomes back with something strongerto finish the job
.there's no pointin leaving the chrysalisif you've gotno desire to fly
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.death has a wayof assuring youthat he is youronly friend;he's the onlyone that willstay with youwhenever youreach the end
.we are allstrayssearching forhomes ineach other
.i hearthe sun hisswhen it catchessight of the moon,i see you too, so pleasedo not come any closer -i crack wordswide open to see justwhat they're reallymade of, and i longto do the sameto you, i thinka crowbar is the only thingthat would give youa more open mind, iswing then prise -you laughand saya moth in searchof the lightis boundto get burned(what are you in for?)
.september -i've been underthe illusion it'sa sundayfor four days,i sit on your kneeat the kitchen table,roll one of thebullets under my fingercold gold andand smooth,do you know whatthat is? -yeahbut i don't thinkyou do - he saysyou're fuckin weird,you know that? fuckincold, maybe i'll juststart calling youwinter -and he doesnovember -they grace me withthree days, and i cannotconvince youto come with medecember -the only time i like youis when you're asleep,i gnaw one leg out ofa trapjust to crawl my wayinto another(it takes everything i have not to smash my bottle over your head)
It Comes With AgeYour bonesmight as wellbe of papier-mâché,at thetragic ratethey're decayingaw a y.
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
.she'll hold him tight tonightand dread the coming mo(u)rning
because i'm like a relapse (of you or youth)baby blues cannot cure suicide agendas.all these poets do is wither, wither,waste - decomposing bones justenough to trade them in forwords & kill themcell bycell &conversations bloom between my tongue &teeth or two choice vertebrae; thoughtsburst like blood vessels,like self disgust(i am more catatonicthan i am catastrophic).
radiantI am shaking ligaments, tender machinations, unrealistic ideologies of anarbitrary cynicist. [gaps between human sympathyare toxic; breathingis a chore. there is a careful warmth in the combined effort of necessity's unwanted side effects.]we are the forgotten.we are the tangled limbsand childhood stories fora more sensitive future; weare the longing, we arethe limitless. we are measured in the people we touch;and I will love you in the UV light of hide and seek paranoia. I love you in the red shimmer of harbored dreams, I love youin the industrial gl
Sanctuary?Shadows Can't Follow You In The Dark.
IntrovertEveryone's tryingto get out ofthe shadowof their parents-I'm here tryingto get out ofthe shadowof myself.
how to take someone for granted (instructions).i. when the weight of the world is on their shoulders, leave them be.when the heaviness transfers to you,expect their sympathy.ii. goodnight cuddles and kisses add a nice touchto a relationship; it is far too muchfor them to ask you to listen.too much time is wasted, you see.iii. yes, when they are curled up crying with their blanket or duvet or whatever instead of you for warmth, you know you're doing well.they are beginning to tellthat you only want them for your own need.iv. endless messages flood your phone. inbox. voicemail. letterbox. they want you but you are not there.you don't care. congratulations - you're not too attached.v. now it's the time to find someone newto bend-over-backwards and jump through hoops for you.she has gone crawling to someone else for support and is trying to forget your existence.and just how do you feel about that?
No rest for a weary heart.Yesterday my mother asked me what Iwould name my children and I told her thatI did not want any. She scoffed at meand shook her head, insistingthat once I found the"perfect man"all of that would change.And I thought backto all the times when my palmssweated and my throat ran dryand my cheeks heated up just becausea girl walked by whose lipswere so pretty and pink that all I wantedto do was taste them."No,"I replied, swallowing the acidthat was threatening to crawl out ofmy mouth,"it will take a lot more than thatto convince me."Because despite the fact thatthe mere thought of a manwith arms that could carry the weight of theworld holding me tight couldmake my legs crumble beneath me,I just don't know if itwould be the right choice.I remember oncewhen I let it slip that I supportedthose who loved all gendersmy parents stared at me as if Ihad admitted to murder. "It's wrong,"my father had exclaimed and to me,his words were a toxin more deadlythan arsenic
.i keep wearingmy skinlike an old wornjacket and jeans,stitchedover andover again