augustyou tear apartevery aspect of me,and i lie on the ground.dissected;still not whole.
Heat AdvisoryWe are an air-mass thunderstorm at the heightof an Indian summer -- a cloudburst collidinginto a cyclone, raising the temperature of anywho wander through our sweaty inversion.I soar above the earth buoyed on your thermals,straight into a clap of thunder conceived bylightning fever. A roiling heatwave travelsacross our connection, evaporating the atmospheresurrounding the eye of our storm. Your humidbreath wisps over the thermodynamics of my skin,pushing cumulonimbus up the drought in my spine.Muggy kisses trail down my body like volcanic ash,a haze blurring the lines between our hurricanes.And as the barometer spikes, my heartbeat quickens;I am sucked into the vortex of your tropical storm.
a monster's romanticsI got a nervous habit and I drink too much.Can you tell I haven’t slept very well since the last timethat we spoke? “We’re killing time just a little bit faster.”The words come with a new kind of sadness.If it looks like Armageddon’s coming down today,please don’t tell me that I’m dreaming; I can’t tellif he’s real or a made-up version of her again. Andthe hardest part of living is just taking breaths to stay.
breakingtime ticks on and you changeto survive, but survival of the fittestalways seemed a bit skewedin the history booksof whoever won this war.you're a chance to show themthey were wrong;pull the trigger one last timeand let them knowwho you're going to be.if they smother you, shinebrighter than the fragmentsthey're made of -- don'tlet them make you a ghostin the machine that spins awayin forgotten dimensionsuntil it rusts. the craters of the moonwill always call for you,changing the tides endlesslyuntil your voice crackles throughthe radio and shouts back,"no one can break me!"
untitledThat guy thinks he's heartless;I watch him as he buys coffeeand gives it to everybody he passeson the street who looks sad, andhis lips curl into a smile becausehe made a joke that gave someone a laugh.He holds his mother's hand on topof hospital sheets, pressing the buttonto pump morphine into her systembefore he signals a nurse. Tears cascadedown his face when he watcheshis mother take her last breath.And his lips curl into a sneer as he walkspast a cloud of lung choking smoke,thinking of the fume filled airhis mother suffocated herself in.He thinks he's heartless, buthis heart is bigger than anyone's.
getting rid of inhibitionsI peel off my skin; unrestrained.
InfatuatedI am infatuated with a boybecause his smile is too big for his faceand it feels like the only thing that’s real,because his eye color is ceruleanand that’s been my favorite crayonever since my grandmotherbought me that set of sixty four,because he’s so damn beautifuleven though boys aren’t meant to be,because his hands are big enoughto hold the whole worldand he doesn’t even knowwhat he wants in them yet.I wish I could find the courage to crackmy rib cage open for himand point out all of the waysthat he managed to sneak into my heartso nothing is misunderstoodor misinterpreted anymore,but I can’t even speak to himbecause my tongue ties itselfinto pretty ribbon bowsbecause he is a gorgeous jigsawand I don’t understand him at all,even after a million glances.So I’m dissecting every word he says,every glance in my direction,and every casual brush of skinto try and find subliminal messageseven if there aren’
resurgencelet's make small talk,six month silence swelling;sticking inside our throats,filling the space between us.let's make small talkand skirt furtive eyes aroundthe absence we never quiteaccustomed ourselves to.this is easy,but then it's always beeneasy.we move lightly,flow smoothlyin synchronous;an oh-so similarfamiliar scene.let's make small talk,stumble on faux pas promisesand the intimacy between twowho are no longer intimate.orbiting the past,we dance in words.
Being Okay Is The Hardest Thing We DoBeing Okay Is The Hardest Thing We Do because being okay is expected,if we’re not okay, that’s not okay,what can we do to be okay?we can scribble illegible wordson a canvas made for by paintersmasquerading as notebook paper,and hope that we can sell the burnof stinging emotions for some paper.but the funny thing about that thought?is that american money isn’t paper,it’s 75% cotton and 25% linen fibers.so even the money you'd earn from your misery,isn't anything you can write onwhen you realize your money isn't made to heal. even if it does talk. but it never really ever says enough, does it?But that's okay...being okay is the hardest thing we dobecause sticks and stones do break bones,but you can hide the scars with a jacket or longer sweatshirt.or put on pants as opposed to athletic shorts.words kill, words heal, and words are so much more.and you can't hide the scars that riddle your face,the way your
three ways to fall aparti.we were seventeenwhen you promised me thatthis tiny dustbowl ofa southern town was not going to beeverything my life was made of.it wasn't hard to believebecause the maps you'd spread acrossyour ceiling never lied (since you claimedit was easier to dream when theywere stuck above youin the night).i remember the lines you'd drawnin a felt pen, red because it seemed important,seemed louder than the rest, andi remember how youwould trace the roads with your eyes until youfell asleep. you had a knack formemorizing every escape route, and when i asked whyyou answered that it was because one day youwould have to run.when i asked if i could fly away with youyou said yes, and that night i dreamtof runaways and falling stars. i never was sureif they were supposed to mean something bigger than us.ii.sometimes when i lie awake at nighti wonder now how far we mighthave gotten if we ever left, if we had jumped intoyour old impala and left the road behind us -it's too
Love Letter to ChopinNo matter the number of strings I pull,the number of keys I crash and speakersI blow and records I scratch,I can’t quite chase the sound of the pianoas it echoed through the hallto my ear pressed to the door.Nocturne No. 20 will always be yours.It will always be your untied shoelacesand white-collar shirt between four stained wallswhere the violinists and cellists tuned their instrumentsto the key of increasing hysteriaand pre-concert jitters.It will be your fingers practicing your piecewhile the rickety bench croaked its own songand your laugh at the way your feet tingledin your shoes. It will be our calming breathswaiting in the hallway for our name to be called.It will be the way I tried not to breatheintoo deeply as we huddled,our eyes catching fragments of the cellists and violiniststhrough the crack in the door.It will be the colour of the walls where I hidand the taste of the water that washed away my tearswhen I couldn’t take it,could
god never meant for us to be anything1. patricki expected wondersfrom a boy with a tonguelike a viper and a small,spare room in a strange house.i did not get them.2. tyronei tasted my first cigarette on your lips.and couldn't wash the taste out for weeks.i never smoked again.3. zaccwe were a divine mistake,right down to the way your hands skittered over my flesh like deer.your mother read the fury on my faceas i left.4. blakea dark roomand misplaced pillows caught my disinterestand muffled itwhile you pulled off your shirt.it never went as far as you had hoped.5. lukeyou taught me the disadvantages satin sheets hold.i taught you how to feel falsely oppressed.6. peteryou taught me how to appreciate the shape of kind hands and quiet lips in a rowdy school yard.i forgot your namewithin a year and recall it with doubt.7. markusmy hips had notswollen to accommodate a fetus.your interest lay withmy mothe
You Will Meet Me In The DarkSometimes there is a shift in a personSomeone who was once afraid of shadowsNow suddenly takes comfort in themA person that feared the creepings of the darkAnd the monsters that which lay thereNow takes pride in creeping right alongside themHe that used to shiver and shake at that cold feelingNow turns to face the terror thereGrinning back with blood stained teethThere are things that change a personFrom sweet and naive and cluelessTo hard, uncaring, and unafraidThose that once walked with softness and smilesNow striding with certainty and roughnessA person stripped raw of innocenceMany such a person exist in this worldIf you care enough to look for themThese are the ones that surviveFor they know the horrors of this systemAnd they have seen the bloodthirsty monstersThey are not the ones residing in the darknessNo the real monstersThe ones you should fear and cower fromAre the ones that shroud themselves in lightThe ones with white wings and compassion as their
Forming HelixForming Helixsit at the rootof totem poles,emblem blazephoenix scarsinto token shardsand let heat signaturesspike, sparklike alcohol ciphers.gazes glazed vitreous viewthat triggers starrysky-gaze stareseyeshot into shaky acuitybefore sclera’s bloodshotat divinityfalling likethunder discharge.autoscopy astral projectionas it spiralsandswirlsaround thunderbirdforming helix.
Parentheses(I wonder if parenthesesever see all the letterscaught in between themand feel that distanceas though it is tangible;if they ever craveto be close enough togetherso they could intertwineuntil their inkscratchescollide to incoherence;if you’ve ever noticedhow your right hand ellipsesand curves just like a parenthesis,and how my left hand is its opposite.)
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