I fear no living thing, nor dead.
No monsters hide beneath my bed.
I've heard and seen my share
Of ghosts. I find them harmless;

More than most of all that
Walks and thinks and breathes,
That carries blades or guns, and
Bleeds. But all I find a fright to be

Is resting deep inside of me.
There's Weakness there, it's hiding
Well, it's cunning, slippery, strong
As hell. There's Fury too; a

Juggernaut -awakened by a single
Thought. But enemy to them is Soul,  
Its agent's name is Self Control.
It cages them with Love and Care,

And ties them down with
Self-Aware.

let’s play truth or dare.
so we can mouth a hundred hymns at each other then remember
that we
are the only things we believe in.
i want to whisper in your ear
say how i think
that the first person made a thousand sounds and called them gods
and named them all after you.
nobody has ever been so beginning.

tell me back.
how you love the ash you find in between the pages of my favourite books,
i want to know that i’m here, cigarette burns and all.
i know we are both missing and that’s okay because nothing is whole.

have you ever wanted to become a straight line?
have you ever wanted to learn every single freckle?
name them with your teeth?
taste them under your tongue?
i have never been more silhouette, more oil on water,
more ‘please don’t leave’.

i have tasted your smoke under my tongue.
i have wanted to turn myself into a whisper,
i have breathed your name at the back of my throat.

i tell you
a girl is a safe place you can make yourself to shake in.
a body is something you can grow into,
or out of.
when the door is closed and you say that you’re home,
i hope you know what that means.
i hope you hold that weight to your chest.

i say ”i hope you come back soon.”
she says “ring me when you’re home safe.”

you should’ve never unpacked your bags,
because it gave me this expectation that you were in this for the long run. i’m still running. i have swallowed so much blood that tastes like your regret from biting down my tongue to cage it behind my teeth from screaming about you to a world that wants my blood for ink.
i am more than a number, but 24 makes me feel better than 26, so i sit in jeans that leave red marks on my hips and make it hard to breathe, but see it’s two inches and
i am more than a number, but i know every test score i ever got and still remember fourth grade and question three and crying because suddenly my mistakes had weight and i couldn’t fix things by saying sorry and
i am more than a number, but i was always the middle child, always the not-quite one, not the best friend to anyone, just a girl with kind eyes and jeans that are a little bit too tight and
i am more than a number but to you i am seventeen, ten and three. and lets be clear; it’s the three that haunts me, because *** doesn’t matter and ‘girlfriend’ is just a label, but i wish i was the first girl you truly loved, and sometimes i still wish i was the last, but with you i fear i’ll forever be just another number.
i drove over 17 bridges the other day and next week i'll do it again and i think nobody gets what that means except maybe you.
i just tell them i love the scenery, that somebody must've made these trees blush just for me.
you know how i love to change the subject?
i bet they'd love the view. i bet you would too.
and all these metaphors for other things are beside the point.
this is a metaphor for why i don't wear my seatbelt, a metaphor for why whiskey knows me better than you could ever try to.
all the buildings seemed to sag yesterday and all the stars are doing that cliche thing where they talk quiet jet noise and some lumbering giant made everything shake.
not those hand metaphors, not another one of those & keep the sea to yourself,
i think it was a train, it's sound hugged the embankment for a moment and then trailed off into nowhere,
and that's kind of like me
how there's a town called 'rescue' close to my home and it's no coincidence that i've never been there.
i’m just flatlining now and hoping that you can look at the next girl the way i looked at you.

he stands tall,
you get on your knees
& he shoves his gun barrel
between your lips,
he presses it to the
back of your throat &
asks you to look him
in the eyes, says not to
flinch when he pulls
the trigger or even try
to think of a last word
that doesn't end with
the final syllable of his
name. the fingers on his
left hand slide from the
front of your throat to
the back all in one gentle
motion, like this has
happened before. this
is a normal friday night,
this is the place where
all girls who **** like
they're trying to turn
modern architecture into
ruins go to die.

I feel as if there is a seed that was planted in all of us to search for definition, whether it be of self or of anything else, but search for definition none the less.
As if the things that provide the worth are even there, and not ever more present in the distance of two individual selfs.
As the past would show us, even in its weakest state, it is still distance that determines who is what.
It's so easy to forget that it's believed we spend our time searching for things, when really we're just trying to find where they begin.
Even though beginnings in themselves are easy to find since there so many of them, almost none of them are the same.
This also is why they are frightening; because there has never been anything in humanity's existence that is more terrifying than uncertainty, and finding a lack of, in places that were once full.

Everything turns into:
"There was so much here, and now there is nothing."

Eventually, you start to only think about the specifics in life that were absent from you, and you even try to remeber things you know were never there.
This happens to everyone at some point, and most never understand it when it does.
And at best, you learn to not see people as a place to go.

Despite what you have been told, God is more absence than feel, but who am I to tell you they are not the same things.
It's kind of like, no matter where you are, or who you turn in to, you are always the place that you come from.
And it took you awhile, but now you are here.
You are in the place that took you away by taking you anywhere at all, and this is why: everything that has ever been made was supposed to save you.
And if you believe this for even a moment, then it becomes truth.
That's all we have, all the things singing in their own ways.
Their voices following you wherever you go in hopes you will add to them.


A lot of people will tell you "life begins at conception" or "life begins after....." as if life is something that stirs in a sleep after a certain amount of time.
But you know that this can never be true.
Not the life that you understand easiest, because there is much to be said about it, but at its core, at the place where you lose the ability to break it down any further, we see that life reflects the fragments of the thing that consumed it most.
And that which consumes life the most, that which you have been able to call yours since the beginning is divided between two things : death, and everything singing in it's own ways.