i wonder if my suicide attempt did in fact **** me
and this is hell.
with each one, it seems to get worse.

time always moves backwards and then suddenly it’s forward.
i live in my memories. flashbacks. nightmares.
nightmares if i sleep at all.
and when i don’t, the friends behind my ear
keep me company.
the roommates in my head drown me
and blur my vision.
i feel red in my eyes when i get this way.
the stars fall like the burning fireballs they are
and the screams are unbearable
and the cries are aching
and my heart is being pulled out of my chest
like flowers off its root.
when i’m this way, i’d rather die.

parties isolate me.
loneliness swallows me in screaming and begging.
how did i get this way?
i don’t want it.
take it from me.
maybe then i’ll be able to live happy.

Do i care if you leave world war III at my front door, love necromancer?
My father whispers to himself all the time. I know a secret when i see one.
The mutuality of our feelings are a secret society.
A feeling with multitudes—yet so skinny.
I mimic you. I love you, you necromancer.

I don’t care if you leave world war III at my front door.
Fuel the fire with secrecy. Burn the cold with my sweater.
Do you shiver from fear or temperature?—
As romantic and poetic as this roundabout is, it’s hell.
Set me on fire, you always held matches but never lit them for my shiver.
I lost the battle and the war and my native tongue to you.
You shiver from fear, love necromancer.

in summer sunsets I find the glowing
embers of your eyes
as if the poets and painters
gazed upon your irises in reference

the art sat for centuries before your date of birth
as if some prophecy
that roses could be pale as ice
with scathing tones and imbruing eyes to my forested mind

the ivy wrapped tight
around my fixated arm
it swallows me whole

and one day we’ll become plants in the ground that fail to grow
we’ll lose our obsession with this meager life
we’ll cling onto nonexistence for eternity—departing from the idea of dimensions
and as deadly as Death is, life is deadlier

There’s a river in the woods
I bathe in it at night
I walk barefoot on the earth
I’m seduced by the moonlight
This is what a derelict does
We dance in rivers and let it push us to its rhythm
Someday I’ll reach the waterfall
And I’ll fall lissom

there’s a peculiar beauty to watching the world catch fire and living in the centre of flames
there’s an off-tone to the rose-colored glasses suddenly turned gold
the form of my waxed wings devouring my existence
what if singing sirens called me to the deceitful sea?
what if i was the sun to my own wings lingering in vulnerability to myself?

there’s a strange state in the air: the wither of life and the aching of death pushing my shoulders to sea
my cold, cold shoulder i turned against my father

there’s some truly pixelated gold surrounding my presence as the hotel my soul adopted falls to the trenches of the water

i fall in love with the in-between of life and death for a second or two or five

my arms flew and swung wide as my life was mapped and completed
i bounced with laughter
and i sunk into the swinging sea with great gaiety

and all of my flames were put out in an instant

Stop asking me if I like you. I don’t know—I don’t think I ever will. And that’s fine with me. All I know is your reflection buried under the dust mites smudged on the mirror. I live in rented apartments with bugs scattered evenly around. You live in the articles that I never approved of. You live in silence hoping for someone to bring out the beast in you. You stay quietly around the corner. Observing every conversation. But you never initiate one. You never become the bear with claws. Rip their articles up. I see them still in my dresser drawer. Rip your teeth out. You still bite viciously through that fragment of paper.

The ale smell stained on my shirt. The bricked wall of my rented studio apartment. The state of dealing treachery. The ill-lit midnight lobby. The sun crayoning orange shadows over the ghastly, grotty bathroom. All for the mite chance of my words prancing on the article.

my finger is saturn
and your brown ring wraps around it
how the ring grips my finger
i’ll camp with the stars
and you’ll be held by me
we’ll tug on each other’s heart
and watch the stars shower the suburban streets
we’ll sit on the skateboard
with cigarette stains on skin
and your hair between my fingers
and that sunset kiss

i’ll ride the inbound train to boston
and we’ll kiss when i get there
you say “i love you” like a promise
you say “i love you” like a prayer

the cigarette taste on your lips: bitter bitter bitter
if you leave, i’ll forever live with the tan line on my finger

I haven’t been writing recently
I’ve been living life
Under stars that will soon decay or destroy everything in its sight
I’ve been sleeping in grass and climbing to roofs
I’ve been drinking although I hate the taste of *****

I’ve been traveling the world through thoughts and dreams
I’m lost for words
That’s why I haven’t wrote

I’m wild at heart
And every word I write has my heart laced into it

But lately I’ve been calm
And at peace
And in temporary nirvana

I haven’t been writing
I write for closure
Though my life is at war
I am at peace

Your eyes are impure
Made sully but tender by the wandering eyes of others
Emboss your body with their words
Push your legs through water, rise from the sea
Eat men like air, run your fingers through your hair
But you’re no Hercules
You’re no hercules

Bite the souls of others
And demolish your own