I'm here to speak for the dead.
They haven't forgiven us.
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 7:56 PM UTC
Envy and insecurity are secondary emotions. There is a root and you must locate it
I lack the passion of a thief
stealing is *****
I am a four page secret, creased along the knees and folds of the fingers. I am a four page secret, folded at the knees and the neck.
I lack the passion of a thief. ******* is my religion. We are still connected by breath. The taste is similar. The attempt is admirable, but
the idea of control is beyond recall. Diamonds shimmering, cutting into my eyes. I can't spell the new language. Please help me understand
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 7:08 PM UTC
I'm trying to write how I speak
but looking to the sky has no sound.
Half eaten breath
sliding across my tongue like a piece of candy.
After years of sewing sentences together, trying to accelerate my youth
you have offered me a new language,
with hope that there is an end at the end, and it will be glorious.
If I ever believe these things you proclaim
I will put the pen down for good;
Nothing more to say, to discover, to spell.
But I do, I do want to write.
Each day that passes, picked, ripe, then rotten,
I conjure up the courage to just kneel and listen to the words.
I shake my memory box
and you survive, you rise to the top each time.
After this thought, there you are, and after this thought...
A particular one, that has caused much disruption
is that
if I ever become someone else,
with pain that isn't mine,
with a different tongue, with different breath
you will still remain the greatest moment of my life.
You hold the last word I will every say,
and somewhere along this life I will receive it,
whispered into a pillow and placed under my head
and as luck would have it, I am unattractively curious about what it is...
Until then,
I try to write how I speak
Jul 10, 2021
Jul 10, 2021 at 7:07 PM UTC
"I took note of what the darkness does to you, but you still find laughter among the living.
Your veins are still full.
Oh, you say that you too have no soul?
Well, I have no vitals.
You have something to lose, I don't."
Feb 7, 2020
Feb 7, 2020 at 12:45 PM UTC
I put the moon in the bathtub with me last night, just for some company.
While we soaked, I rummaged through my mind; thinking about the times that I could have used your help, if only I had said something then. If only I could take time by the hand and walk it back to those moments. If only thinking this way would provide nourishment of some sort. But it doesn't, in fact it does quite the opposite.
Fully awake in the depths of my anxiety, usually when I have the most to say.
Questions leave my lips in an almost inaudible whisper. Will I be forgiven, when will my lunar lover leave me, how long do the mosquitoes that feast on me carry my scent with them.
If I speak too loudly, if I open my mouth too much everything will fall out.
Fragments, detached tissue, nightmares.
So I swallow, take in water, swallow.
Cough up some fire, spit out the remains of thunder I had left.
Angry at the water for welcoming the noise with ripples pushing away from me.
Reality set in.
Will you be strong when I'm this weak?
Will you wipe the drool hanging from my lips when I'm finally empty?
No, you won't.
I left the moon my soapy remains, you can have it back now.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 9:21 PM UTC
September will be waist-deep in restoration.
The rain today was evidence of that.
Thunder for the deaf ears.
Lightening to whip the rigid spines.
Eventually it will break the water's surface.
It will separate souls from the atoms it inhabits.
Pick up the rock, watch the ants scatter
The other half of the bible has been found.
I've seen it, there are no questions left.
Love is coming.
To the influence, I give permission.
Though this heart is nothing more than a fist of lifeless gray matter,
a rhythm of agony continues to barrel through the pathways in my body.
Atoms and assumptions packed into a sack of brown fabric,
I lie awake into the late hours, hoping that we've been praying for the same paradise.
Sep 20, 2019
Sep 20, 2019 at 6:08 PM UTC
The vagabond will come to you in the bruised black of night so keep an angel close by to reverse the collision in your digestive track. The voice will penetrate your outline, jagged starry sounds from a drooling unhinged jaw talking about something that resembles a spiritual awakening. You will become septic with acid blood, tears running down your neck, attempting to count the visions, pointing with seared fingertips. The first to die from misophonia.
Lock your door.
Aug 20, 2019
Aug 20, 2019 at 8:37 AM UTC
There's a stabbing memory that I hold dear to me
It's that night you tied my hands behind my back and rocked me to sleep
Barely, drunkenly, I awoke to frozen veins with the cold shakles still on my wrists
I sat, and shifted, and turned and tossed
No matter which direction I faced, I smelled your scent in the wind
My trampled fingers retraced my steps in the fields of hair on your chest until you opened your eyes
You turned towards me, pressed your foot against my body hard enough until I slid off the edge of the bed
The shackles pulled me down head first, smashing against the floor and making a crack in the dark hardwood
A clean break
But instead of resuming the usual routine of a graceful departure
I locked your door, dragged the angel out of the closet
and demanded that he tell me why I couldn't have you
He told me to table the conversation
Aug 1, 2019
Aug 1, 2019 at 7:53 AM UTC