You
take my hand and lead me
into the fire
You
put your hand on my back
and push me
into the dark
I
touch your arm
and ask
how you feel
I
take my place
by your waist
and I kneel
I am folding beneath you.
I am losing my shape.
I am fighting to breathe
with little gasps
fighting to speak
with tiny murmurs
I am holding onto you
while the rest of me
falls away.
Jul 21, 2017
Jul 21, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
I stopped bragging about my vices when
you reminded me that I existed before my addictions.
I stopped blaming love for knowing me falsely when I realized that I had never really met it before.
I realized that my obsessions ran shallow because I thought that it would be hard to quit them,
but it was harder to hold back
eternity;
the infinite moments that I felt
had existed
before I did.
As though the love I have for you was
pre-
determined
pre-
ordained
pre-
ternaturally formed.
As if the way I had organized my messy human emotions into neat little
boxes
&
lines
had all been an errand to occupy my mind.
Before I loved you-
I loved escaping.
Any window
or stairway
or back-alley-path
that I could shimmy-down sideways
and avoid
things like
small talk
or
free verse
or
early mornings,
were the lanes I would dwell in,
hide in,
reside in.
But when I'm with you-
and when I'm without you-
(because now you permeate everything I do)
everything that I do is tinged with you;
Your colour
Your contrast
Your pigment
Your hue.
As if you are a light ray that I can now see,
my spectrum has gained the most beautiful wave.
And in this ultraviolet light,
the
small talk
and
free verse
and
early mornings
are sort of
breathtaking.
I say sort of, because while I gasp, you give me air.
And how can I choke when my heart's already gone?
When my skin is electric and my soul is
on fire
like some sort of creature that's been born from the flames.
And everything I thought that I needed
has now been
erased
and
replaced
and
preceded
by this uncontrollable urge
to eat you
alive
to have you
inside
to *** when
you die.
And this monster that you've made of me is hungry
and *****
and cannot concentrate on anything but
you
And I swear to God
or the grave
(and really, they're the same)
that if I love you any more
I will be ruptured in two
which would leave me a quarter of a person
because I'm only whole when I'm with you.
Like the four-legged beings that Zeus ripped apart-
I've searched for you always
I've searched for your heart.
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
my name is lillith and I just want a cup of coffee and a ripe avocado and for people to answer their cell phones when you call and movies not to lose their imagination halfway through and purses to be big enough to fit a book inside and for people to stop singing songs from Frozen and I want to wake up when the sun is shining and go to bed when the moon is out and to write in a notebook that reminds me of myself and to drive fast on a straight road by a glittering ocean and every day I want to work up a sweat and an appetite and an eagerness to dream and really I don't think I'm asking for too much in fact I think we should all ask for a little bit more especially from ourselves and definitely for others and I could go on but what's the point in making lists if you never cross an item off
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:34 PM UTC
I can smell the cigarettes.
I haven't smoked in days
But I can smell the cigarettes
in between your legs.
I can taste the coke cut up,
running down my throat.
I can smell the cigarettes,
even with no smoke.
I can see an image of
a woman lying bare
I can see the ink she's buried
underneath her hair
***** becomes public when
we let ourselves believe
that smoking isn't bad for you.
that you will never leave.
if I could capture
you
and me
if I could capture
what
you see
if I could capture
the
capturing
I'd capture-keep,
the
long legs/
black hair/
smoke suspended in the air
a cat with whiskers wiser than/
the man who's broken eggs again
the shells that feed the mystery
because WHO THE **** COOKS EGGS AT MIDNIGHT
and I swear to god if one more person looks at me seductively
I'll rip apart the
leather jackets
jean vests
studded flannels
studded chests
because life just never seems as good/
as retrospectively.
as looking back on someone else's/
frozen memories.
and the worst-best part of everything
is when it seems so real,
that you could become one of them
if only you could feel.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:21 PM UTC
do you know when you've had a really long day, and you stop at the grocery store to buy dinner, and you don't really want to cook so you go to the deli section and you think, I could go for some cheese tonight, so you head to the fridge carousel and you pick up some cheddar and it says it's been aged for two years and it looks pretty tender and you think, This is some nice cheese, but as you put it in your basket you see another cheese and it's gouda and it's smoked and you think, Gouda? I hadn't even thought about gouda, so then you think about gouda and you start to notice all these other kinds of cheeses and you see that the gouda is lactose free and even though you're not lactose intolerant that somehow intrigues you, and you don't know a lot about cheese so you think maybe it's because gouda comes from goats not cows and then you think How come people aren't intolerant to goat's milk? so then you look back at the cheddar and now it doesn't seem so nice even though it's been aged for two years and it's pretty tender and you thought it was nice before, so then you put the cheddar back but as soon as you let it go you think What if I don't like gouda? and so you put the gouda down and now you're standing there by that refrigerated cheese carousel without a ******* thing in your hands and you get sort of sad all of a sudden and you wonder if you're ever going to pick a cheese and even if you do will it ever be the right cheese and suddenly you start to tear up but you think, No, I'm better than crying in a grocery store, so you pick up the cheddar again because trust your first gut right? and you pay for your cheese and you walk back to your car but as you sit there in the parking lot getting ready leave you realize that maybe it's not about the ******* cheese and it's never about the ******* cheese and maybe you don't even like the ******* cheese that much anyway and so you kind of scrub your fingers into your scalp and pull your hair and hit the steering wheel once or maybe twice and your cheeks are hot and wet and it's hard to see so you rub your eyes dry and when you look up there's an elderly asian man watching you freak out a little bit in your car by yourself, and so you slowly start your car and pull out of the parking lot and as you drive away you wonder if the elderly asian man ever cries and if he ever can't decide on a cheese and if he ever thinks that he doesn't even like cheese at all either.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
doesn't this city just make you want to break things
doesn't this city just make you ******* hate things
doesn't this city just make you want to run
want to invest
in a knife
or a gun
don't all these people just drive you insane
and don't all these people always ask your name
just to forget
in a sec-ond
why they even came
into this world,
for shame
for shame
and wasn't it just the other ******* day
that you thought to yourself
maybe I can escape
and wasn't it just
the other ******* day
you told yourself
*I can break the **** away*
but here you are in the same **** place
and here you are
losing the rodent race.
because money is tight
and morals are loose
and who gives a single ****
if their neck's in a noose
I mean, baby, or ********
all these little games,
come on baby,
my ********
we're wasting away
*bourbon,
no-
whiskey*
the devil in a drink
he pulls me straight past hades,
to deeper depths I sink
And it's the scars that you can't see
that run the ******* deepest
and who are you to say
I shouldn't ******* drink this
How dare you look at me
and say I shouldn't smoke,
I look at you-
and encourage you to choke.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 1:40 AM UTC
Let's talk about a sunset.
Let's talk about an apricot smeared across the sky.
About the plum that leaks in around the edges
And the calm and excitement we feel
For the following night
And the dandelion morning that we call a ****
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.
I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****
but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-
-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.
And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.
And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a god **** child who can't handle life.
*I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite*
I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.
I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.
I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.
Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.
It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.
Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.
And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.
*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.*
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Do you ever wake up and feel like anything is possible?
As if anything you decide to do that day is the right thing. The perfect thing. You can make no wrong choices. You could get hit by a car and it would be the best thing to ever happen to you, because it happened today.
You decide to wander around the city where you've live. Where you've lived for years, but now, today, you see the place as a newcomer. A tourist in your own town. Every building beckons, and what better one to visit first than the bookstore?
Everyday should start with a trip to the bookstore, you think.
The small shop is full of staff recommendations and ratings from the internet. Every cover tempts you. They all seem so ******* interesting. You want to pick them up and eat them whole. Digest them all at once. This reminds you that you'll never have enough time to read everything, but instead of bleak, this prospect seems romantic. It means that every book you do get to read is much sweeter. And it's cool, because you get to join the book's club. The story becomes the common denominator between you and a bunch of strangers who've also read it.
There's a woman working at the book store. She talks to you about Thailand and this yoga retreat she just returned from. It sounds beautiful. She's beautiful. So beautiful in fact, you think she may be the most beautiful person you've ever seen. That's nice.
You leave the book store with nothing, as it's too overwhelming to try and pick a book, and it was enough just to look at them.
On the street you notice everyone seems as perfect as the woman did. Flawless. Whole. With their experiences carried on their shoulders, bursting through their eyes and spun into the palms of their hands. Everyone has a million little moments, memories and ideas all caught up in their hair and tucked into their pockets.
And they bring all of these moments into every interaction they have. Everyone who meets you sees you slightly differently. Because when they speak to you, they don't see you simply as you are in this moment. That's how an infant would see you. No, an adult sees you compared to the last person they spoke to, you become tinged with the taste of someone they know who has your same name. They see you with a hint of hatred because your eyes look like their ex-girlfriend's, or they adore you immediately because you said hello the way their father does. Do you understand? When you meet someone, you're meeting their entire life. All of their experiences bundled up and traveling around on two legs. Every interaction unwittingly influenced by all of their predetermined notions and assumptions.
So. Here, you've realized this overwhelming awesome fact. Which you don't really know how to explain, but when you try you find yourself saying things like; "It's like we can't ever really know anyone, you know?" or "When was the last time you cried?" or "I hope I see her again." but in the end you don't mind if you don't. See her, I mean. You don't mind that you'll never see the woman again. Like maybe she and you were only supposed to have that moment in the bookstore. Just a flash of personality in each others day. A random face that will show up in a dream two years from now. And when you wake up you'll wonder if she dreamt of you too.
That would be ok. That would be good. Because if nothing else, it's nice to be dreamt about now and then. Yes, you think, that would be enough.
Jan 7, 2014
Jan 7, 2014 at 8:34 PM UTC
Everyday I hang myself
I nail myself
I staple myself to the wall
Everyday I bleed myself
I let myself
I rub my blood out in the hall
Everyday I hate myself
berate myself
I get out of bed and mandate myself
to update myself
to curate myself
Artist the **** up and create myself
Everyday I design myself
define myself
I put on my face and outline myself
Everyday I dissect myself
I correct myself
Take out my parts and infect myself
I change myself
rearrange myself
I paint all my organs and stain myself
Everyday I reword myself
martyr myself
Use the strings from the Beats to suture myself
I collect myself
Resurrect myself
My volition in life; to perfect myself
If I fail myself
derail myself
I'll have nothing but a cheap veil of myself;
*a shattered bulb
a melted fuse
a pack of matches burned and used.*
No supernova,
glory,
fame.
No concrete star,
with golden name.
Forgotten, faded,
dusty muse.
Mona Lisa,
cut and bruised.
My blood still smeared all down the hall,
my skin still nailed up to the wall.
My body scarred from mutilation,
mapped attempts at self-creation.
A jagged,
torn up,
constellation,
The Hero of Humiliation.
Don't we all fear failure's kiss?
For if you shoot
for the moon
and miss,
you'll rot away in the abyss.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC