i paint our pasts with the bedroom light turned off,
the flickering ghosts of street lights,
tiptoeing their frail arms into cracked windows,

but we were never built to last,
our ankles were never meant to support us.
only these hands, holding my body underwater,
could truly save the meaning of us.

and at noon, while the ground was still moist,
and the trees were still swaying, i bundled up feathers,
from dead ravens, from dead doves, and tied them to my hairs,
shut my eyes, and let my soul wander,

to where I was a bird, and you were a worm,
where the earth was void of sin,
and nothing else nurtured me more than you.

to the open sky and the now toss of trees,
to a dimple in earth, and my pebbled feet,
to you, drowning in a puddle of last night's storm.

my hair is falling out, and the birds are begging for their feathers back.

my window is latched shut,
the rain continues to drum against it,
you are almost painted, you are almost painted

but i am still a part of the storm, my body lives unfinished.

the dining of open flesh,
bares its bitter bourbon taste of silence
into a room masking ****** with romance.

the disguise of trampled hedonistic elegance
from dead mouths, liberates black moons, stolen
from charcoal hairs of blood fed suns.

the devil pleads golden,
rinsing off broken souls,
pushing them to their belonging tides of famished sea.

lathering ashed breast bones prepare starving vessels
into hissing snakes, into a porcelain face.

banking celestial existence weeps into tortured passions,
feasting on self destruction.

a desired blackened grave blooms venom,
knotting its unnoticed self to daring victims,
harvesting a norm of perpetual sin,
dwelling real and unchangeable; like gravity.

the dining of open flesh,
swears its inevitability.

fragility lives reminiscently ******,
overlooking intoxicating, adolescent souls.

a stalker fused to anorexic bones,
a plateau of silver downfall,
crevicing its offspring in undead eyes.

hurdling runways, walked by the brittle,
sprouting canvases, drawn by the blind,
scintillating speeches, spoken by the deaf.

the bloom of daring puberty
mouths on perverted livestock,
to attempt the robbing back of their
stolen perpetuity of existence.

youth; thirsting for epiphanies,
but being left there as a skeleton.

I learned how to breathe,
cramped naked in a soapy, smog-filled tub.

Innocently laid bare, a human sacrifice to the drowning waters,
I opened my lungs, suicide clinging there like mold.

I forgot how to breathe,
kneeling on open ground, nails dug deep into dirt,

watching your carcass disappear back into earth's womb,
faceless, unaware of where you had left me.

I learned how to breathe,
Wrapped around a picture of you.

****** wrists, an irreparable body,
I reached devil possessed hands to my throat to attempt to find you.

I forgot how to breathe,
When I felt your **** body.

Your skin, heated and smelling of ***,
You kissed me, lingering lips fixated into mine.

I learned how to breathe,
Watching crying street lights fly by me,

A rumbling car, the wind in my hair,

The last, quiet farewell from you.

when I perish,
pray embers of burning fireflies
harvest me into organic soil,
plead for my soul to swim to clouds of wool,
dwell in the sky like dead stars.

when I perish,
hide far from that uncontrollable sickness of despair
that will strive to chase you.
waltz there, on the fragmented earth belonging to me,
waltz as if there's an unheard beat of elegant melodies,
soaring through you.

when I perish,
keep the fear at bay,
and the hope where you can reach it.
For I am not remote,
I am just away,
inhaling royal tides of bloodless seas.

when I perish,
think of me and try to dream.

these fingers,
your decayed bones.

these nightmares,
your dying face.

these despaired remembrances of daylight ballads,
your hand, the pen out of ink.

these scars,
these blades,
this ruined flesh.

A promise once made,
to kiss you at midnight,
beneath a solar eclipse.

Instead, I lay here,
gripping your fleshless body,
imagining you are the sky,
The multitude of dancing stars,
the moon stealing the sun
in a heated, begging

act of sworn devotion.

all noises run dry around me,
I feel nothing,
nothing at all.

And I ache for something,
I ache for some kind of pain to know
this isn't

dissociation of being alive.

But my skin can only stretch so far on these
feeble, starving bones,

and my integrity can only bear so much weight at once,
before it collapses.

Before the only thing that remains of this deathful skeleton,
is a distant memory of lost friction