I am bruising over and
over, my hands underneath the sapphire
fire they turn scarlet not livid
like my skin, deep blue upon touch.

I dream of ghosts on lustrous seas,
spirits that see
the endless ends of this and
how vapour fades to
return to the ruins. Light,

she dances on crystals only
because inside it is cold, colder
than bitter winters I have not seen.

Teach me how to lie awake
in sleepless quiet, glittering with
answers. Teach me how to burn
like a comet before their great
fall.

It is not a mirage. This;
it is vital they share the same blue
veins under their pale veil. But they breathe different
airs.             To live, is to learn how
to rejoice with paresthesia
causing liquor down your throat
and be in the stupor without feeling
stupid.
Stupors feel better
lucid
and this, this all feels better in sleep.

I like to mimic the dead
when you hold my
hands. Cold and listless.
I do it to know
how fast we can hold
onto the drifting before they slip
                                                         away.

All I desire was
there before my
eyes were ever opened.

How can nothingness
cause the death
of something and death
pave way to
more life
?

I love the word frailty
because it sounds like a fractured
version of fragility,
like someone twisted its torso
and filled its void with an ‘I’.

Which is funny
because ‘I’ is weak and ‘I’
always barely manages
the extra breath.

I no longer burn
in places that scathed
so easily. My body has erased
every trace of me
laying waste to  space.

I am trying not to write
meaningless things, the way I
have in the past but
I have become
a stain on shirts, a spot
of discolouration on skins.

You see me
as a Rorschach test but I am only spilled
ink that means something
out of sheer
coincidence.

I no longer trust the little
pulses sitting in my brittle
wrists.
I no longer believe
it is tangled
to something greater

I want perennial infinites in
finished sentences. An understanding
of some certainty. But promises
promise only the opposite.
The ends of thoughts tell me
to only trust the unuttered
letters and not what it lends
to voice because
human touch only destroys
and dissolves, like snow
on your skin. The one thing I
am perennially missing.

I cannot escape death. I mean that in the most literal sense, but also in the most metaphorical.

I keep thinking about writing. I keep thinking about what has been written. I keep thinking and sieving and choosing, nitpicking and weighing. What are the thoughts I want to see the ends of? What are the words I want to be accountable for when I am gone? How do I want to be remembered?

In writing I always seek death.

and that is precisely why sometimes nothing.comes.