the page is dead
to reach a longed-for end
holding on to every last bit
a condensed breath

sunned down black car
summer heat and sweaty palms
malboro gold in hand
lips moving towards mine

your face between my legs
a comfort I never felt when touched
bodies there in white cotton sheets
we leave nothing but stains to be retrieved

with those aimless hands
we seek each other's spots
practice to be repeated
undisclosed desire

through the eyes of a writer
everything becomes a movie
with the simplest saturations

from a child, holding a balloon
to a mother, ready with knife
you wound the iridescent
candlelight settings and hopeless romantics
this world that we live in
so eerie and white
yet tamed by men in black
within, she holds it
firmly, but not yet tightly
I walk proudly with the scars
carrying them around, at display
like an aborted fetus
those eyes as you look down
there is no innocence to be found
the cut is made
sincerity and modesty at its best

I break apart on Monday morning
I glue myself together on Tuesdays
if I make it to Wednesday, I am relieved
but if I make it to Thursday, I am deprived
knowing that Friday will follow next,
crushes me into puzzle pieces
that I leave on the dining table on Saturday
for me to put it all back together
into one frame on Sunday

i love that fantasy
that i want to project
because it doesn't matter
how much you are
willing to distract
we all know that
manifestations
and
affirmations
will only lead
to the most underwhelming
and expected translations
of our transformations

My brother stole my mirror
Now I can't run my fingers
Alongside my provoked ribs
In a nostalgic way.

They resemble my health,
Don't I look healthy?
Upwards I go,
Collarbones I outline.

They are sunken into my upper chest,
Like the roots of a mourning tree.

My body the earth.
As much death as life.

I dig with them
Into the flesh,
But only I make them turn red.
The cracks in the pavement,

I relapsed.

'write from the heart'
they say
should I
should I share the endless void
my blood doesn't color red
it is black
and thick
opaque
my organs rotten
a smell, the flies
I can taste it in my mouth
it stinks
the larves crawl up
out of my eyes
running down my features
onto the ground
where my weight caresses
onto the wooden floor boards
cracking and screeching
out of my mouth
I wrote it down
it's fine for now