my organs in a snapshot
//
i might rip my lungs out because you’ve become my every
breath, and i can hardly deal with ache in my chest. is it love?
everyone can tell that i am different. everyone can tell that i’m
glowing and maybe it’s because of you, maybe it’s because the
two of us make something like starlight. you are the very
creation of every single constellation, you are my inspiration,
my oxygen, the very consolidation of truth.

you rip my heart out and bring it back moments later. it’s laced
with fairie lights and twinkles, and somehow it’s still whole.
you are the only person that has not torn it apart.

god, babe. no one i’ve met has made me want to sing the way
you make me want to sing. i’m resting my head against your
chest as we dance to our favourite mixtape. slow and sweet,
like maple syrup. it’s been almost three weeks and i know
exactly what this means. the butterflies in my stomach turn into
fireflies and they love you.

and now you’re thinking,
baby, you’re golden,
baby, i’m holding
on to you.
baby you’re golden,
baby i’m holding
on.
baby, you’re golden
baby, you are,
you are,
you are...

unstill life with a peach pit.
//

i paint you in every colour before you leave my field of vision.
i spit out words i don’t understand like i love you, i need you.
you dance with me in my bedroom, spin me around until i’m blue
in the face, you say you love my glow in the dark, i say but you
shine brighter.

maybe we could sip on the cyanide in our peach pit smoothies
while i carefully contemplate? i don’t quite understand this but i dream
anyway because there’s nothing better than our flashlights.

i’ll make you a thousand mixtapes and we can dance to modern
day synth pop and we’ll feel like we’re in the eighties. i’m a nineties
baby i just made it there. syncopated words, and clever cacophony
spill out of my mouth, you’ve got my lip gloss on the corner of yours.
stay careful, i don’t know what any of this will mean in two weeks.

but, we’ll go out singing,

*baby, we’re golden,
baby, i’m holding
on to you.
baby we’re golden,
baby i’m holding
on.
baby, we’re golden
baby, we are,
we are,
we are...

Playing through the scratches and blemishes to reveal a time less complicated.

She say baby hurry over
so I tell her okie doke

She got fiya and dank earthy buds
I call that oakey dope

Smoke and chillin netflix playin
Hoping I can hokey poke

I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.

She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--

at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.

Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--

and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).

And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--

"This mix is a good time"

and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.

She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--

I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--

                                     so she can make someone another mixtape.

I throw this *****
like a tantrum

He say my name
like a mantra

Slappin clappin ***
like a hand drum

Had him so thirsty ask him
"Don't you want a fanta?"

my heart goes boom,
    along with the,
    beat of the stereo,
    loud and alive.
the sound of my heart,
    boom, clap-- it goes.
    it makes me smile,
    for this time.
then it goes on--
    subconsciously humming
    to the tune,
    of your heartbeart.

I throw
the *****
like a tantrum

He say my
name like
a mantra

**** so small
that **** look like some *****,

******, ******:
one, two, three