My neck is open and my hands are gone.
No, sweetheart, I don't where or when they’ll be back.
They’re just
gone.
My skin is dissolving. It’s melting off; I'm only marrow and sinew
and muscle, bubbling and festering, and I
can’t reach around the sun to get to
You. I can’t.
I can’t, it’s too far, it’s too hard,
and you know I would give you my
life-blood if I could
but I can’t.
Because the sun is too wide around and I
don't have the hands,
don’t have any hands, to reach inside,
Schluff off flesh, sickly as it is,
and rip out what you need,
whatever you need:
I would.
I would give it you without hesitation, without penance, without
mercy.
If you want me ruthless and bloodied, then I
will carve your name into my heart-skin and whisper it on the wind.
You are on the moon and gravity is a shackle: tell the stars I want to come home.
Tell the stars I have
vultures pecking at my liver
and there is a girl,
singing, behind the rock, behind my eyes,
just out of reach.
Is it you, sweetheart? Are you my golden sunshine girl, singing softly where I can’t see you?
I just want to see you. I just want my hands back and my
skin back and these bones shoved back into place, ripped out, ripped off, whatever.
Whatever you have to do, I’m game.
Is it cold up there? Is there room for me, still?
I built a ladder from my failures and called it Perseverance.
Call it a royal flush, call the doctor, call my lawyers and my mothers, but this
room is a closet and the closet is empty.
All the clothes are
on the floor. All the clothes are
on my body but I am still so, so cold.
I think the sun and I are feuding. I think he cursed me. I broke a rib trying to reach, reach around him and when I felt it snap, I
just took it out with teeth and spite and placed it on a pedestal in his altar. Placed it in a
museum, and called it Discovery. And then I left. I’m leaving, sweetheart.
Tell the stars I’m coming home.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:02 AM UTC
My neck is open and my hands are gone.
No, sweetheart, I don't where or when they’ll be back.
They’re just
gone.
My skin is dissolving. It’s melting off; I'm only marrow and sinew
and muscle, bubbling and festering, and I
can’t reach around the sun to get to
You. I can’t.
I can’t, it’s too far, it’s too hard,
and you know I would give you my
life-blood if I could
but I can’t.
Because the sun is too wide around and I
don't have the hands,
don’t have any hands, to reach inside,
Schluff off flesh, sickly as it is,
and rip out what you need,
whatever you need:
I would.
I would give it you without hesitation, without penance, without
mercy.
If you want me ruthless and bloodied, then I
will carve your name into my heart-skin and whisper it on the wind.
You are on the moon and gravity is a shackle: tell the stars I want to come home.
Tell the stars I have
vultures pecking at my liver
and there is a girl,
singing, behind the rock, behind my eyes,
just out of reach.
Is it you, sweetheart? Are you my golden sunshine girl, singing softly where I can’t see you?
I just want to see you. I just want my hands back and my
skin back and these bones shoved back into place, ripped out, ripped off, whatever.
Whatever you have to do, I’m game.
Is it cold up there? Is there room for me, still?
I built a ladder from my failures and called it Perseverance.
Call it a royal flush, call the doctor, call my lawyers and my mothers, but this
room is a closet and the closet is empty.
All the clothes are
on the floor. All the clothes are
on my body but I am still so, so cold.
I think the sun and I are feuding. I think he cursed me. I broke a rib trying to reach, reach around him and when I felt it snap, I
just took it out with teeth and spite and placed it on a pedestal in his altar. Placed it in a
museum, and called it Discovery. And then I left. I’m leaving, sweetheart.
Tell the stars I’m coming home.
