i and youwho is it thatyou dream of?is it mewith the knife in your back;do you see methe woman witha wolf jawcut slack in a growl?do i pounce you?do you defeat mewith the knifei gave you?and i wonder the soundof me when you finally put your demonto rest--she is a venus(her body cut fromthe ivory tusk with hips like that of a valley, breasts shaped astwo moons caught inher breath)and i am the trapshe slips into.i cut her headinto a loop land wear her round my necklike lace.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again
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
fidelic whore-- this is appropriationmy sweet synchronicity ,i have downed your appetitein a bed of front teeth (it is morning in perthmidnight in dublin, and the noonsun has been lost behinda dress of mothy curtains)do i taste ofyour forethought of love making;do i reek ofthe weeds that have infiltratedthe posture of your spine?-you bend overmy lap a curve of guiltand weep all night.i collect each knob of your bodylike a gift. press it to my mouth.swallow, spit.
thankheaven for books,and mulatto boys thatbreak my heart; thank god for vodka andthank god for urges that slither into deep throatspast better judgement and thank god for his handsthat he lovedme with
the truth behind loving someoneyou didn't love her.the only movie you watched that ever stuck with you was 500 days of summer, and when she asked you to carry her over the rush of the creek that way that summer would have, you did. you never knew what it was that attracted you to that movie, or the idea of loving a girl as much as the protagonist had, but you assumed it was something you should do. you were young, anyways, and you were good looking, and she, among many, had dropped words in your hands, hoping you'd hold onto something. take it somewhere, ask for more, take more, like you deserved. you don't know why you took more from her. maybe she looked best for the part. you don't really know.she was happy, always. she listened to music, you knew; she wore her favorite bands like clothing, wore art in her denim and hair length, and maybe she was better looking with makeup on or off, but she looked like a project, color paper cut and placed over her body in haphazard precision. she was a doll, everyone said abo
note 59burning it was somuch better thanletting it burn me
a love letteri couldn't sleep. there are a lot of things on my mind, and i kept tossing, trying to fling the feelings from me, but they wouldn't leave, so i said to myself, "i'm going to write my fucking heart out, and it's going to feel much like getting slammed by a bus or a train, that immense crash and pain and blackness and the confusion after the hit (do you tumble, crack your head on the pavement or do you die, right there?)" and this is how this letter will go.i'm scared of losing you. shit scared. i go to bed at night, sure that i have you here, somewhere, whether in my mind or in my heart and i wake up and i can't breathe and god i feel like i've really lost you somewhere, in my dreams or my actions or words unsaid. and god, you don't know what it is like to have a person like you missing from a bitter thing like me. i need you. i am coffee, black and roasted and hard to swallow but you make it so easy. you are my sugar, sweet thing, constant love and nothing else. you make me okay. you
on hearts and how they beathe says it likedropping a stack of plates.the plates are his heartand i am gravityand i am the earth that catchesthem and scatters them around
you can't have the world.i never meant to make youhate me; i only wantedyou not tolove me.
Sticks and StonesThey say words can never hurt you.Silence does a better job.
hauntedour house is hauntedmemories floating like ghostsscreaming without sound
contactwould it be possibleto grow so comfortable withanother person'sskin,that distancewould feel like tearing off your own?
ScepticismTearfully, God played dead.
note 32 i am so terrified
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.
The DarknessImmortality is wasted on the youngbut fortune has chanced me eldest.I was the beginning, and will be the end.Darkest, truest, endless.
pine cone heart. it is 9:36 on a Tuesday night. i don't know if it's still snowing, but i do know it's cold and my palms are covered in a thin layer of sweat. slowly, it eats away at my epidermis like a parasite. soon i will be nothing more than skeletal muscle and a decaying pericardium. i think this is beginning to happen already, this disintegration. it began five minutes and thirty seven seconds ago when i realized two things: you will never love me. i will love you all the same. our timelines were never meant to connect, not really. there was just that second-long contact, a chance, a lifetime in my eyes. i keep replaying that moment again and again. i don't remember what you were wearing, how your hair looked, the way your smile looked. no; all i can recall is how your skin felt on your forearm, the sound of a marker against flesh. i realize that that is all we will be: a fleeting smile. a promise to keep in
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
for riley i think i have forgotten how to dream for the last time it happened i smiled and ran my palms through your hair sifting out sand and fumbling at the buried shards of sea glass that bite at my calloused fingers. your frothy eyes threaten to drown me but instead i inhale dopamine and carefully trace the thin boardwalks that wrap around your skull where the hair is missing. you ask me if i cried and i said that i didn’t think i knew how to once when i was young i saw a baby cardinal huddled and bleeding in the grass. i watched the ants and the flies skim over the contours of its closed eyelids until i scooped it up and held
CoffeeI want to go outAnd drink coffee.Talk about lifeAnd kiss you.But that is silly isn't it?I don't like coffee much.I'll just buy some for youSo I can watch you smile.Then lets dance and laugh becauseIt's an amazing feeling to be loved.
OrchestraFour a.m is uneasy -time purloined and lefthanging on the bed posts.You said I crowd your sleep,feet and hands slipping cotton,pulling dreams in paper streamslike the nest of waspsgrowing restless in the tree.Your legs make room for me,for the sound of weatherhappening on the roof,and warm the space above us,setting fire to the drapes again.Just let me feel your claviclepress under my hipswhere daylight squeezes inand hinges us.So we both can waken slowly,you know, like kids in summerwho long for everything to never endand the sky to be an orchestra
TearsTears are good for the eyesyou knowit's like rubbing alcoholon paper cutsit burnsit hurtsit stingsit opensfresh woundsbut it's good for the eyes you knowit's that vaccinethat makes you soreit cleansit healsit lets outall the bad feelstears are good for your eyesyou knowso I think I'll lay downlay down and cry now
on being savedi am sorry youhave never known salvationfrom another's touch