i'm so sorry for being so cold,

my heart runs away from me from time to time

every monster finds it way to my paintbrush. and paints itself and its story.

monsters write themselves in blue ink, idling aphotic shadows, luring near floors, unable to view themselves as nothing more than weak mindless creatures who yearn to be seen as beautiful and not fearful creatures that hide in dark spaces. They want to be drawn and written about, painted and noted. They want to know if they have some place in the world that fears them.
the voices are faded distorted whispers, glitched between my thoughts and the floorboards
they will not let me sleep until they have their stories told.

Standing barefoot on cold floors, i watch the plant in the window as i swallow the white capsule whose job it is to terminate the throbbing in my membrane, and i am a spinning blur, and i am wondering can you hear the voices that are screaming out of me at this time.

at this moment, the rain has stopped and i am finished with my deed, the window looks like  soil with paint thrown into watery waves.
walking back to my territory, i drop on both knees, suddenly and face first i fall into the couches cushion. repeats: "take me out of here take me out of here take me out here." until my breaths gives up on playing dead, and my face is purple and red.
I stand on wobbly knees, face feeling like a Southern summer day, I am thinking of you  and I move on.

here comes melancholy he's singing in my ears and he's come to comfort me. I put the pen down on the ink stained paper and say hello. He is distracted but he sits on my lap and slithers between the spaces between my fingers. I ask him did he see her today, and he says he did. I ask him did she seem sad, he says she did. I ask him did she think of me. he says she did not.

we saw the sun through the tree's

and found something in ourselves






     *komorebi (n.) sunlight that filters through the leaves of trees