the happiness was only a spur of mania
I wish I was the sun
the high wears off and I remember my skin
as he flicks his cigarette out the window.
you are the front porch light
that bathes the street in a nauseating yellow.
I dream of fields of flowers I can die in
stupid and empty.
stupid and empty.
swallowed in the discomfort of this aching body
a deer sprawled out in the middle of the road,
maggots gnawing at the skin- once full of youth
stumbling through June- time seemed to stop.
writing poems I won’t show anybody,
I won’t tell anyone I’m sick.
I just hope I remember this summer spent in hell.
my love was born in the winter time. the crunch of frosted grass, the morning's dark and quiet- an endless sleep, but i am always awake. i love this life in the winter time. my lover was born in the winter time.
music for dead people S:2 E:1
winters in indianapolis with you
the places and the strange feelings they give off,
the music plays in the streets as the snow falls.
the mattress is on the floor,
you take up most of the blanket.
skipping class to sleep in your bed,
skin soft and fleshy
a text read at 2:30 a.m.
i miss getting ****** on the regular.
now all i have is pbr and silence at parties
autumns in Bloomington without you.
hugging the blanket after you leave.
it’s a hazy Sunday morning
looking at an empty seat across from me on the bus
how dark your eyes are in the moonlight
a void expanding
it felt like we were on the edge of a nuclear war
as the smoke from outside the brick house covered your face.
i don’t know how to tell you.
as if it really means much.
you always have to leave in the morning
no matter how much we both want you to stay.
but there’s an urgency,
the world might end for us tomorrow
and you won’t know.
the next week i am laying on decker’s cold apartment floor,
missing winters in Indianapolis with you.
forgetting how all of our favorite coffee shops closed down,
and the icy streets that never seemed to melt.
the sun will rise tomorrow and it will sit in the back of my head.
dark eyes long hair and the box of hamms you lugged up to nick’s apartment.
the old couch you slept on.
our drunken laughs.
how I wouldn’t tell you
because I wanted to do it sober.
the way you say goodbye in the morning.
you might be it.
you might be.
I watch the fields in Ohio turn from a soft brown to a decadent grey
as the ashes fall to the ground and consume you
waiting as the brown pools in the bottom of your mouth
As the soil pushes through-
stiff at the shoulders
soft in the stomach
I felt us become attached at the hip
as I asked you to pull the car over
So I can smoke a cigarette and stare at the moon.
how are you so bright and full?
like a streetlight hitting hard cold concrete
how could you make the stiffness so soft?
as the glow expands over the fields
I look at you, and the shadows of the dead trees
how wonderful they will come back to life in the summer
and so will we-
with our sunkissed knees
and the peeling of the skin
the most Vulnerable we will be near each other this year
stiff at the shoulders
Soft at the stomach
the fields stretch from Ohio to Virginia.
I wonder how I could apologize to you without saying any words.
without ******* myself
so I just point to the moon and hope it will be summer soon.
Hope that our skin will peel till it’s raw and fleshy,
And the soil will fall at our feet
the lighting bugs dancing around us.
I wonder if it will happen as I had once hoped.
there is no humane way to harm an animal
i say as you smoothly run the knife over my stomach
i am spilling out all over you
as you roll your cigarettes and touch my *******-
you do not look at the photographs i take
you do not read my poems
i am only a skeleton to you.
mount me on your wall
there is no humane way to ****** an animal
Tear into my flesh
Watch my body rot.
As it stretches and rolls and turns a pale green-
You know there is no humane way to ****** an animal-
But you like the taste.
I can smell it
The death dripping from yr mouth
deep crimson making a home for itself on your t-shirt
It is 2:39 a.m. in west virginia,
You’ve been sitting in yr car for 2 hours.
On your phone searching for the perfect flowers
And how to repent for your sins
Jesus sits on the cross-
The cemetery is an hour away.
Smoke another cigarette-
You’ve got time.
back on my *******
theres loneliness inside me.
very very deep down.
i can hear static when i look down at the ground.
the ice and snow mixing together
i can feel myself falling
its the most I’ve felt in a while.
i can see you from the ground here
you were drunk when you said it.
the whole thing about never leaving-
as you held my hand in the cold as the leaves were under our feet.
i am so used to watching you walk away.
counting the number of steps
until you are just a blurred figure.
i wonder what my mom would think
theres so much blood on my knees
as i shake,
the number of steps
it takes me
why did you lie to me
i often dream of never waking up
my toes are sinking into the snow
watching the imperfect explosions in the sky.
there is no way to reach you from here.
you try to speak to me through the infinite spaces you found in the void
of internet forums we are both apart of.
i am trying to reach you from here.
as i try to figure out the exact pantone color of your eyes
so i can paint my apartment walls the shade of you i still remember.
i am shifting through the boxes,
drowning into the unfamiliar space i still cannot manage to call
i am a shape shifter.
trying to mold into that one perfect sad song.
i am desperately trying to reach you from here.
i am dead compared to you.
you’re so alive.
i am calling from the grave,
in the poems and the songs i write.
you are the sunrise i wake up to in the morning,
you are the color draining away from my skin
as i pour my black coffee and watch the birds go far away.
your eyes are PANTONE 19-0117 TPX-
i don’t know if i’ll be here tomorrow
i don’t know if this place will ever feel like home.
and i don’t know if you can hear me.