the winter is the prettiest
in the dead of summer,
and your bedroom smells like cherry blossom,
but only when it's 43 miles west of my flesh...
the present moment always tastes the same,
hot blood like rusted metal
collecting in the deep ditch of my gums,
i am biting the barrel of my very own gun,
wondering what i will grieve for tomorrow,
this fear hangs quiet in the still air i inhale,
if it is not growing in my chest,
well then i mustn't be breathing...
shaking to sleep,
i haven't lost a thing
but then why is there this hole
in the pit of my stomach,
so raw that the air penetrating it
feels like a scolding blade?
i have stuffed it full of cigarette buds,
birthday cards,
paint brushes,
glass bottles,
and sterile needles,
but the wind still whips through it somehow
early in the morning
and late at night
when my bedroom is silent
and my eye lids are heavy
and i am starving
but i have filled myself
with so much
that there are
starving artists,
journal entries,
tv shows,
concert venues,
outdoor tents,
decorated novels,
inside jokes,
and beer pong tables
pouring out over my edges
so what do i use
as gauze for these opened wounds
when there is no fabric left
anywhere in the entire universe
of my head
and not a single clue
of how i collected
such romanticized injuries
in the first place,
other than this
constant & sharp
general yearning for
*anything but this,
anywhere but here,
anyone but me*
?
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
the winter is the prettiest
in the dead of summer,
and your bedroom smells like cherry blossom,
but only when it's 43 miles west of my flesh...
the present moment always tastes the same,
hot blood like rusted metal
collecting in the deep ditch of my gums,
i am biting the barrel of my very own gun,
wondering what i will grieve for tomorrow,
this fear hangs quiet in the still air i inhale,
if it is not growing in my chest,
well then i mustn't be breathing...
shaking to sleep,
i haven't lost a thing
but then why is there this hole
in the pit of my stomach,
so raw that the air penetrating it
feels like a scolding blade?
i have stuffed it full of cigarette buds,
birthday cards,
paint brushes,
glass bottles,
and sterile needles,
but the wind still whips through it somehow
early in the morning
and late at night
when my bedroom is silent
and my eye lids are heavy
and i am starving
but i have filled myself
with so much
that there are
starving artists,
journal entries,
tv shows,
concert venues,
outdoor tents,
decorated novels,
inside jokes,
and beer pong tables
pouring out over my edges
so what do i use
as gauze for these opened wounds
when there is no fabric left
anywhere in the entire universe
of my head
and not a single clue
of how i collected
such romanticized injuries
in the first place,
other than this
constant & sharp
general yearning for
*anything but this,
anywhere but here,
anyone but me*
?
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