When I sleep at night: It feels like time and space are seperating and the idea of reality breaks through my bones, crippling my very structure. My thoughts are floating inside the void behind my eyes. Nothing is around, my brain is empty. The point is when I sleep: I do not dream anymore. I lay still unconscious, unaware of the things happening around me. My thoughts flush put of my head. Leaving nothing but darkness. I tell myself I'm strong, that I can survive. My favorite shape is a triangle.
we can love if you will kiss the needle just a little bit bigger- your image isn’t your most beckoning quality just a little bit thinner- we can sleep if you will follow just a little less brain- don’t stand loud love, it isn’t becoming just a little more tame// stand straight but think alike don’t stray or wander from the path ahead walk in unison and stay uptight basically, loveables are brain dead. you don’t belong here.
people always tell us who to be and who not to. to stay thin and keep our pretty mouths shut. we are to be superficial followers and we aren’t born for this world.
My memories were located in a box Just to the right of my dreams, nightmares Playing out like half-improvised scripts in my head. The memories were polite, always, just resting patiently in their places Until you looked for them and they escaped out that hole in the bottom, The ones the rats chewed last summer. My brain is a well-mapped city. My brain is half-destroyed. The box of my dreams could never hold them all, so they littered Waking hours with their eyes. I expected it from them, but not memory, my polite and pleasant fellows, My childhood friends. Loyalty is a short-lived ideal. The boxes fell into each other. I’m forgetting why I gave them different parcels of the brain in the first place.
can you feel your womanhood? your ******* your curves your stretch marks your hips your lips your brain can you feel your gentle shoulders sway through the pain as the universe quivers between your hips can you feel your power?
Intentions strung upon my own Waiting for the flowers to grow. I dig and dig and dig and dig. Not much time for thee to waste. The roots they yowl beneath thy feet, dragging surely more than any plain old dirt. No, nothing ordinary about it. Stones, bones, eerie tones. Not the kind that ***** you. Not the kind that **** you. The kind that swears to never let you go. The kind that invades your brain to morph you. That will insidiously destroy you. All the while you cry and plea. Please don’t try to leave.