My heart was mine in day til night
She came and stole my life
In cold, beneath streetlight
In her leather and jeans
Like she knew just what
She wanted, and she did
I'm glad the innocence
At first kept back the fiery truth
That you were so much like me
That I was much like you
Or else I'd not have stolen yours, too

I want to ask you to be more meteorite than devoted
I want to ask of second tries when the first was pointless
I want your flesh in flames, defeated by the fire inside
I want you momentary

Time on Earth is short so I raise my lowered eyes,
Cast them at one lucky star and liberate my lowly heart
With a below breath, whispered wish:

I want to ask you to be more like me than yourself
I want to ask the impossible and punish your failure
I want your utter burnout to match my speed of entry,
Air to ground, apparently

I have not ever considered myself of worth
I never adapted to the loneliness of adult life

Time on Earth is short so I raise my lowered eyes,
Cast them at one lucky star and liberate my lowly heart
With a below breath, whispered wish:

Let me know it's truly you when I see your face on Mars.

I'm sending
This message
On the floor
On folded knee
Eyes closed, mouth
Open, head back

Hoping you
Will posess my
Soul with your
Same answer

Here I pray
In debt, a *******,
To the altar stone
Old and alone
Here I pray
Again and again

Hoping you
Will posess my
Soul with your
Same answer

Bodies belong
in the cold, cold ground
Bodies belong
in the heat of flame
Bodies belong
wrapped with me

Tight, and pressing
recent death to flesh.

Oh
No
You
Don't

Won't
Need
Your
Drink

I'm just fine
I spend the long nights
In an intimate dance
Touching myself
Comparatively,
You're not interesting

How
Dare
You
Buy

How
Dare
You
Scheme

What about me?
What about me?

It's about time that you see me
Tell me what you want
Spare no detail

Fail,
I'll deliver the wrong dish
It's about time that you look here
Tell me what you see
Rake up my flaws
Talk behind a nervous, naked back
How awfully kind of you
To eat and leave

Time goes pouring in a cup, all
my empty calories
Eyes go from the ivory wall
back to the ceiling

I want you to see the
imprint of pharmacies
You dismiss me
I want you to see the
horrible life I chose
Hear constant wishes to get right
Never the penetrating notes

Of the unrelenting love song

It's about time that you see me
Tell me what you want
Spare me no detail

Tell me once. Tell me again, I wasn't listening.
Move your mouth. Speak again,
I wasn't watching or listening.
Typically when tongues lash, mine is still.
Typically on a night out, it's better to stare.
Whispered our shouted,
who cares? Who cares?

I couldn't help notice in my devotion
to your pink lips, sweet breath,
from your deep depths, the impending
kiss that follows the free spit
of a wordsmith tastes more unpleasant
since you quit calling a noose
a noose, gave the blind spot presence.

You were awake
when I entered,

you're
           telling
                      me
                            now
­you've been asleep
                                 this
                                       whole
                                                  time?

Pe­rfect -- because I have, too

Now, you can release me,
                                             I'll
                                                 release
                                                         ­    you

Basically
I'm the
disease

your
poor heart
could not

pump,
process,
or purify

the
tasteless
something
in the water

waste drains
exit into your water

Put you in duress,
the deviant disaster,
the master depravity,
the agender **** toy,
smiling sodomite

offered only carnal
distress for your innocence,
trash for your
sacred naivete


(but I'm not wrong . am i // am i .)

This tributary
Happy accident
Shyness
Flagrance
Deeply inspected

This notorious
Dearth, designed my life
So why
Not write
Why not paint pictures?

The donor with the ink
The spread recipient
Left and stayed

The ink that he left fades
The fade that he left stains
She made the mistake of
Looking for love as an anchor

Two lovers' worth or lack alike
Fabricate their draft designs
I'm incomplete, a mess
Two lovers' worth or lack alike
Fabricate their draft designs
A complete mess

Best if I reverse design
and I publicize
notorious dearth as proper opulence

Just as a heads up to any of you readers it may concern, I'm abandoning both projects in the header. The Drama of Miriam Marcus is something you may see pop up again, either in its original form, or perhaps as an entirely different project.

Dark Spells was a project born out of the recurrence of a common, deep depressive state that finds me time and time again, one you may notice without my saying. While I often romanticize themes of depression, anxiety, paranoia, self-loathing, and self-destruction, I must point out that I do so because I'm bound to these feelings regardless of stagnation, regardless of agitation. I romanticize my illness simply as a means to survive, as a means to still feel fulfilled as a human despite the haunting emptiness.

That said, recent developments in my personal life have unchained me suddenly, and I'm overwhelmed with the need to embrace the misplaced. Concepts like happiness, curiosity, and wonder are once again nearly tangible. As such, a project as thematically troubling as Dark Spells is not currently a possibility.



TL;DR:
Yo thx for reading. ****'s about to get a little lighter, a little softer, a little warmer. I succcc.

Blue jeans fused to the office chair
One foot tucked under the other knee
Stuck in place watching your dreams

Unfold through a dead eyed stare
Never felt so social, have you?
Have you?

With such strong connection,
Did you figure this condition
Could only get worse?

I've barely used my life
Since I saw proof of yours

No device,
I

Hate

Stand alone
scratching the spine
of my open book.
I alone
touch this book
manipulate the spine.
They warn of the bright outside
When I see only dark

I don't even know what to say anymore
I've used the word word and words
too many times and I'm in
something of a rut
dominated by a state of nigh infinite flux
the problem is I'm aiming an empty gun
at yellow iron ducks, red horned devils
thinking the same few thoughts again, again,
again, stuck casting such dark spells
spinning the wheel, ever on the carousel
all i do is cast dark spells
all i do is tell true stories
as if they were tall tales
when i could scribe my life
as if it were fiction

In the end it doesn't matter if I get my **** touched or my **** ******
Get permission to lip little kisses on your hip skin, kiss that ****
It turns out I can please myself, with my mouth, only the wall's help

Save my life
        It's nothing but wasted.
Pull aside
     the green, leaden curtain.
Of envy, it fills my
            every move with deadened motion.
          Come inside, won't you?
Save my life
From        a c c i d e n t a l        hurt
        From despair too
   Carelessly placed to
Be on       p u r p o s e.

What if it was?
Would you trust me?
Enough to relax,
eyes rolled back?
I don't promise much,
and I can't promise
a soft place where
and when I drop you.

              I'll d r o p you.

Universal
You know the bandage pull
And how they say you should
Remove in one yank?
Oh, for comfort, true.
I've got the addiction
Just like you.
Meet me on the carpet crisscross
And we can slowly tug the
Adhesive for the pain we need
Over days. Better yet, stay.
We can hide ourselves for years.

She'd gone from discharge straight back to the office, dressed in her sweats and intake band. She got into the elevator, fingered lucky seven, and rode the way up stuck in molasses thoughts, in anger and shame.

She was no one's property, The Agency's least of all.

The neon lights over River City's southeast side popped and sparked, dancing gracefully in the array of dull grey derelicts. She watched them exploding through the safety of the glass.

She'd tell Asgar exactly what she thought.


"I don't give a **** about the why, I give a **** about the how. How could you do that to me, man?"

I was doing you a favor.

"No, don't even -- you were doing your ******* self a favor. "

Oh, of course. We all thought you might like to have some teeth, Miriam.

"Don't say my name like that! I'm not your ******* daughter."

Calm down, okay? Please?

"You made a decision about my body that was not yours to make. If I want to be a toothless crone, that's my business. If I want to have one *** and a ****, that's my ******* business, Asgar. "


And when it was over, as most do, she rode the way home with her head hung below her shoulders, wondering if the words she'd found to say were too true. She wondered, what some wonder, if her truths were better used when they were cut from the script to defuse inconvenient situations.

When she went inside, Miriam threw her keys and her clothes into a pile by the bedroom door, pulled the band from her wrist and then stepped into the shower. She'd go out. If she truly weren't worth her weight, then she'd throw herself to the city, hoping to trade what was left for ***.

And drugs. Drugs, too.

To answer your question from earlier with a newfound clarity, we're over. I've been ready to let go, but unable to budge an answer from the woman of such few words. Well, tonight she dropped me, and it's official. She punched my sheet and gave it back for the last time, passing me back into the world without a hurtful word like I'd been her best employee.

What's it going to be like now, as the human slingshot? All the emotions long left to the side return to the hole the skeleton of our dull relationship dug from the dense pulp of my longing body. I'll be a bullet, the smallest pebble, toward a target picked at random.

That's what's called a faulty firing pattern. For all I've tried, the SSRI won't fix my inability to grasp the practice of foresight, so for once I'll have to really think about putting my foot in the door. A road like that leads to nothing but the worst I have to offer, and the worst the world finds it can give in return.

I want to love, but I don't want to date. What is dating? I feel too old, and if you tell me I'm not old by any standard, then I feel like I missed something. I want to love, but I want to do. As I do, I want to meet. And if I never, then that's fine. But I'd rather meet and make the silent hard sell in a moment of the truest definition of fiery, urgent complacency, than pick through peers and lovers like I'm at a thrift store bin.

What I want, is to do what I want, and do what I know I shouldn't do, while sometimes pretending it's this great disaster that I report in writing, type into boxes on screens that lead directly to the people most likely to benefit from hearing about repeated and semi-purposeful crash and burns.

My perpetual hope is that I'll catch lust's throbbing hand so well wrapped around my throat that I'll simply die. That I'll choke and choke until you, whoever you are, break the bones away and choke my lungs with blood. I hope for the spastic gasps that you'll confuse for last breaths, when I'm actually having an ******.