I have a question: how can i not doubt? how can I expect truth after a year of silence? there was a year of silence followed by loud bursts of colour that have rendered me blind to any such truth. silence; silence breeds an illness that can only burrow far - silently - until it can dig no deeper, and where it settles is the nest of doubt you have been hiding for so long. when the eggs hatch and the baby spiders of horrible truth and revelation come skittering around those cerebral planes, you can do nothing. it is known you are in love. silence; silence breeds a want, a deep slow burn of some diseased flame on a wick that can only wither into heavy dust, and this dust too will settle and it will melt into your mind and while you doubt, you know there is a reason you doubt. you know that you doubt because you are afraid. you are afraid of the truth that the flame ignites and you are afraid of the truth that will paint the walls of your skull when the baby spiders of realisation explode from the heat of the moment. you are afraid that after this silence you are right and that you are in love and you are afraid that after this silence you are right and that he is not
and then the baby spiders do what baby spiders do best. they crawl out and they feed on your heart and you can't do a thing until it's all gone
and when it's all gone he is gone with it and you are nothing but a spider's nest of cocooned doubt and hatred, the antithesis of life

Silence cannot be found in shadow;
     silence inhabits the green rooms of the heart.
Silence cannot be drawn from misery;
     silence lives on only when life is full.
Silence thrives when we are loud;
     silence can be found, only in certainty.

Have I found God?
     Where is he?
He is in your hair.

Life - love - death - are all but a flicker of a flame;
     the flutter of a scarf in the breeze.
Here one moment,
     gone the next,
like slipping over the edge of sleep
and being wrenched back up again.

Stomach ulcers; turpentine in your tea.
Bleeding gums and missing teeth; self-hate fight-club.
**** and **** and *****; ****** underwear and nameless boys.

There was someone, once.
Someone neither boy nor girl,
someone made from life.
Someone who could weave magic from the flowers,
someone who wept magic.
Someone who would not crumble;
no, they would not fall.
Someone who built their walls so high
that they would scrape the stars.

Oh, his little bruises.
His little scrapes.
All his little stars in his pocket
or on his sleeve,
his hair tumbling around his face like rain,
like all his little tears.
There are little flecks of blood under his nails,
but he was blushing in the dark.