let this be
what you
need it to be.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

i've decided that
i could **** myself,
but instead, i'll find the words
that will do it for me.

Berne opens herself up to me
tonight as i drink weird Swiss beer
and choke on weird reality.

but i swallow —
like i’m really not in it, and i guess i’m
actually not because i made a flighty decision
and ran as fast as i could to the foot of a mountain
a different continent all together.

escaping beyond the electric
city where the people sit and
count the cigarettes they have left
in the pack, drinking the last bit
of their weird beer, and waiting for
love to come along.

so beyond that,
theres this eccentric magic
in the modesty of a calm night
in a wild city,
where will things come together?

sitting at the edge of everything,
hands folded neatly and eyes filled with light.

this is what it feels like to create the universe.

"everybody goes there sometimes"
sings in my ears. he smiles
waining crescent
and ****** drips
find the corner of his mouth.
indestructible and somehow
unafraid.

"well.. she gives beautiful hugs" he says
to my friend in the parking lot
as i sit on the roof of the car 6 feet
away drunkenly brooding
as per usual
and i thought about the time
i hit him, and
we sometimes hate each other.

when i come home
we don't have to talk about it.

he goes back in time
to think of things
he should have said.
he's got strong arms from
carrying heavy thoughts for so long
and it seems someone else lives in his
mind sometimes

but i want to live there too.