fingers threading through flames,
i try to keep my eyes unaverted while
canopy and humidity coats my skin,
hands dripping, bravado slipping,
although one could argue i had none
initially, like you'd bite back (literally),
while heat licks at the singeing wounds to my pride
across my throat, along my jawline,
drawing out sighs in your wake while
nettles sting softly down my thighs,
trapped whimpers escaping through
openings gone unnoticed, losing
all focus, drowning in(ferno of)
Butane blue lights his cancer stick
like the colour of his eyes,
Breathes in miasma, the apple in his throat bobs,
Toxic curls around him in tendrils
and dissolves into the night air
He raises an eyebrow and looks at me, curious:
Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?
I really like his hair,
Wanna feel it in-between my fingers,
Glad he can’t know what I’m thinking
but he stares at me as if he does,
Burning underneath his butane blue gaze
I can hate him at this moment,
Incinerating any capability of lucid thought
but I relish the flames, thinking
I used to love the cold.
i’ve spent the last few years
why am i so late(d)
alarms go off inside
but i hit snooze anyway,
go back to bed
and roll over
i can’t face the sunrise.
written a few years ago. encapsulated my dysthymia and completely wrecked circadian rhythm at the time.
(since my recall isn't as lucid as yours):
i'd like to imagine that these
wires and terminals traverse
and meet at various odds and ends
like laundry powder and the crumple
of leather on the floor,
summer room industrially cold
and spent curled up
from 9.40 a.m., running on four hours
though was wildly, wakefully inspired
you used to say that sleep is overrated
in the company of
pages and nightcaps, repeated and
withheld goodnights worth more
than a hundred, five times over
now i greet the ceiling away
from milky cloud and skies
in some blinkered awareness, sheets creased,
folded in a mocking design
in-between vistas of
my fingers which you clasped like instinct—
present tense, clasp
—remindful of things that are still here,
that i am no longer fiercely alone.
dedication goes without saying.
long-distance is tough, ducks.
"maybe i should back the **** up,"
and stop picking out deficiencies,
voyeuristic of all
the idiosyncrasies that make
a person with the way
their shoulders sway,
how their hips align over
in an anti-communication when
yes means no in deadened sensation,
arms taut and wrists raw,
when breaths draw out
a cry, mind awry
but without a doubt ignored.
this girl asks me, "gotta minute to spare?"
chapped lips and misty-eyed
while i stare enviously at her thighs,
wishing i could taste that milky white,
sits down, touches my hand
and tells me,
"the moon is dying",
something i already knew
but i cry anyway
babbling incoherently into her hands,
brush a finger over her shoulder,
dotting freckles in constellations,
the speckled stars of her irises
combust into molecules
scatter, running freely away
oh girl, we could tread these muddy waters,
traverse the land on our bare feet
and wipe the filth off our skirts
but come sundown,
we'll still sleep alone.
sorelle, Italian for "sisters".
— The End —