when i died the first time
inhaling an ocean
this was not the plan
and when i did
i tried to fly with no lessons
and they called me
but i came round
and sought a chainsaw
and then a mermaid
and then death herself
i think she was
and each time
they said the same thing
over and over and over and over:
wrong destiny. wrong destiny.
the instructions are in a language i do not possess.
Gun to the lips;
Hair jagged at the tips
and socks with rips;
Icy white-knuckle grips
and sweat that drips;
Shattered, scattered glass chips
And a gun to the lips.
doesn't it hurt? will it ever stop? do you even want it to?
If you loved me - then - it's not me
I've already come and gone and went
haven't felt it this way since he died.
maybe it's grief,
the way i mourn the change.
maybe it's envy,
though i know that sounds strange-
but i think that it's fear
though i've grown and i've learned,
what if i'm meant to cross bridges i've burned?
i remember the last time i felt in extremes. i remember
the sun and the moon,
hanging in balance between pendulum eyes.
i remember when i felt fine. better yet, i remember
when i wanted to feel
anything, sad or happy, and wanted it to last.
i remember when i dreamed of people who didn't,
and places that lasted,
and people to call and places to be,
even if only once.
now i love the cold,
and i stand outside with wet hair,
and watch my breath swirl around me like feathers in the breeze.
my fingers are cold,
but i like the burn.
i don't want to get better.