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  Oct 2020 dove
i imagine breaking each other's noses. i imagine the bone-crunch, cartilage on cartilage like a car crash, the feeling of the skin giving way. i imagine a nosebleed so thick, so clotted and deep-red, oxidizing in real time, warm milk on my face. i imagine a day without nausea. marked by stomach acid, snot pooling above my lip, the face in the mirror gagging into the sink. i draw anything and hate it. i go for rides and just get tired. i try to write and i feel nothing.

bits and pieces of the last few years manifest themselves in dreams: the feeling of handcuffs and hard car seats like playground swings; a six-by-six room with words etched into the wall; being sandwiched between linoleum and fluorescent beams. i revisit myself; she never cried, just dug her nails into the palms of her hands and bore the weight, i admire her stoicism. i admire the way she held her shoulders.

it's 2017 again. i clean blood off the walls in suburbia while a kitchen knife exposes a trachea somewhere in west virginia; i should've known back then that i was cursed. she skyped me with blood dripping down from her chin to her chest. i wonder if the scar's still there.
dove Oct 2018
i imagine you rotting. rotting and melting. flesh becomes matter as it falls to the floor. we wear our hearts on our sleeves and the floor wears our skins and muscle. that’s how it always goes, right?

why are you looking at me like that? you know that we’re the same (we’re the sane).

getting back on track, you’re falling apart as i watch (you made sure i did; i couldn’t ever take my eyes off you). you’re completely exposed now, bones and all. you say to me “its like i’m looking in a mirror”. at least, you said with your eyes. your lips are on the floor, sinking into the stained carpet (believe me when i say this because if they were still attached i would have kissed you right then and there).

suddenly, there are tears in my eyes. you try to wipe them away, but they don’t stop. you pick up some of your muscle to try to soak them up, and i tell you that’s not the kind of tissue i need. you laugh, but nothing comes out (your lungs have already decomposed. it seems you’ve already forgotten).

and then i look away. my tears dry, and, as i look back, you’ve reformed. good as new. not for long though, as soon as a minute goes by you start this cycle again. you’re rotting. i look away, you’re back. rot, return, rot, reform,

don’t you ever get tired? (i do.)
i guess you could say i’m “back” but was i ever really gone?
dove May 2018
i’m standing in the middle of a museum. which one? not important. i’ve lost vision; everything is blurred and i feel like i’ve just been told i’m legally blind. i can’t decipher what is art and what isn’t. is this chair something i can sit on, or an antique sculpture? are the people walking around me real or some elaborate movie being projected with myself as the only real one there? how can i even be sure that i’m real? of course you are real. i tell myself you would never be considered art.

and then it hits me. her. when i looked at her, it’s like i had 20/20 all over again. she was so clear but somehow remained dream-like in such a natural way. she was more than art. she is more.

god how i’ve felt myself being ripped apart like pages out of a sketchbook everyday since i’ve met her (it’s not your fault; i’m the one who ends up burning them anyways).
dove Feb 2018
you know what happens to them. or maybe you don’t. maybe you’re still caught in the flood. that’s okay. it’s better to drown than to burn. don’t you think? don’t you think? don’t you think?

it comes to me in two distinct shapes. (distinct. are they distinct? to me, yes, but i suppose to you they are just as shapeless as i am to you.)

him. my beautiful idiot. though his hair and eyes are dark as night, i know there are sparks that lie there, dormant. waiting to be ignited. but he makes me smile, makes me laugh so hard my stomach begins to hurt. i haven’t felt a good hurt in such a long time. the lips of his ghost leave an afterimage on my neck. he likes to watch the color rise to my cheeks, likes to watch me squirm. he thinks i’m worth something.

her. my ethereal starry girl trapped in a rotting sack of flesh. she wants out. she wants out. i know she will supernova anytime. it will be just as beautiful and terrible as she is, but i don’t want her to go. she keeps me from floating away, even if i am so unbearably heavy as a result. she protects me, loves me. she always tells me so. i can still feel her hands on mine. they’re warm. she thinks i’m worth everything.

but it doesn’t matter which form it takes. it always ends the same. they kiss me (hold me protect me embrace me touch me touch me touch me touch) and they burn. they always burn. it’s because of me, i know it’s because of me. this can’t be my skin then, it can’t be. it must be gasoline or gunpowder or nitroglycerin or god i don’t know but don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch me don’t touch
who am i supposed to choose?
  Feb 2018 dove
tell your friends you love them today.
its love day
dove Feb 2018
i don’t know why
things go
so wrong
with people
who seemed
so right
dove Jan 2018
just like how
in an airplane
you put your own
oxygen mask on
trying to help
anyone else,
you need to go
save yourself
then come back
for me.
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