The warm cocoon breaks,

Spilling a tired body onto the floor.

Panicked, I hurtle to the door.

I kneel before my God

And spill my prayer of meat

On feet, body, crown and seat.

Clutching my saviour,

I draw a ragged breath,

Pleading, demanding for death.

The storm abates its tired refrain.

I rest my head against the wall.

I'm sure I swear "never again",

And back to sleep I fall.

Raising is a feeling
I've never felt before
Not one of love
But one of gore.

I can feel it bubbling
From deep inside my chest
An aching need to *****
To give myself a rest.

I know it wouldn't help much
Problems would still be there
But maybe if I focused
I'd stop focusing on despair.

Paused a netflix movie just to write this,
my eyes are heavy in both sleep and solemnity,
I miss you.
It might seem like I rather do other things,
but that's because I'm scared about when we're alone.
I don't want to disrupt whatever high you've got going.
So I'll write to you-
maybe you'll see this, maybe you'll never look back.
And that is all just okay.
I remember there was a time I just loved you-
fearlessly.
It didn't matter that you didn't trust me
because I was certain one day, all of that will come.
That as long as I loved you unconditionally-
I could show you.
I had so much passion- so much drive,
I was thriving in those moments.
I believed in something that might not ever work
for the sake of belief
I was so deep in love.
It was dream-like.
Somewhere along the line this proof of promise-
converted into fear of loss,
and for some reason, I never was able to make you see.
I don't know maybe you've lost the details in your dark shades.
And while I am dying for that moment you let down
your 200 ft wall,
I'm now aware it might not come.
I'm okay with this.
Because my love for you
is not about what you give to me.
It's about how much I enjoy reminding you
how incredible you really are.
You always seems to forget that- and I don't mind being the one
to show it every single day.
I've been at the end of such a love-
and it's hard to reciprocate unless you really feel it.
So I get it.
It's cool.
I'll just keep loving you.
Because with every day I try to show you-
I show myself how much love I can have,
and despite what you might think,
I'm spectacular.
And I'd love me if I loved me as I much as I loved you.
Admitting this is the first step, I believe,
to letting go
acceptance
that maybe I'm not meant to be loved by you.
But I'll be passionate, still.
I'll be thriving, still.
And I'm still so very deep in love.

1.
there's a gun in your hand that doesn't belong there, a windmill where your heart should be
painting on the inside of someone else's skull screaming "i don't give a ****"
did your voice break? OH MY GOD YOU DISEASE
YOU GREAT UNDERESTIMATER, YOU FILTH
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU TURN A PERSON INTO A JACK-O-LANTERN
scooping out seeds for your masters degree
"new advances in science every day" can you smell the ink drying on the back of your wrist
ghost stories arent the same thing as ghosts
"why do hospitals think white is calming" and other laments
sorry, i mean bulletholes
sorry, i mean manmade caverns, tunnels built for metal to crawl its way out of membrane
question: what kind of science experiment requires a human corpse
answer:
answer:
answer:
you will never understand the answer to this question.you will never understand why someone stands up in their seat, screaming "i don't give a ****"
its raining outside.its raining outside.seven of your family members are lying in trash heaps,limbs discarded
and you don't know this yet
but it wasn't my fault.it wasn't me this time (stop looking at me like that
tail clenched tight between your teeth
you smell like a swamp,oh god)
choking to death on someone else's blood: typical.you're a cliche
this has happened before, hasn't it?we were murdered before,
but you don't remember that, or you do but youre pretending not to.tend to
your wounds, lick the blood.
papercuts are a gateway drug
you used to be something pretty.shiny and unkempt,
pretty and a ***** kinda clean:i wanna rip my own throat out
carve triangles in the pit of my stomach so
at least part of me will know how to smile.
clawing at yr eyes like itll make the flies go away
its in their nature
god,what kind of monster are you
what kind of beast.
everything you know up in flames:wither
do you know how fast human bodies decay?welcome to wormfood.welcome to paradise
coughing up tar and feathers "you came prepared"
for what?for an execution?happy doomsday
punch the wall.rub your knuckles.try again
make it bruise
****** and mangled, paint chips cutting off your circulation
YOU JUST NEVER KNOW WHEN TO QUIT DO YOU
youre so kind.thanks for everything,thanks for
the hollow chest,thanks for
****** fists
(you knew this would happen eventually
can you even take a punch?can you even take a punch?)
severed conscience, or whatever it was.
"No One Will Miss You Anyway"
is that what theyre saying?
your nailbeds are sticky
soda and something sweeter and dirt
you had so much to live for,until you didn't
(isnt that what they all say?god,youre such a cliche.)
found dead or dying,isnt that how it goes
no one just drowns
"we have reason to believe--"
you can hear every star dying,all at once
kneeling in front of a toilet that starting to look a lot like you
theres a gun in your lap and a bullet in your head and you dont know which one to trust
this isnt your fault.this isnt your fault.
clean yourself up,god youre disgusting.
how to say your name without choking on it
holding hands with a girl you never met
isnt this what its supposed to feel like?arent you supposed to feel full?
emptiness is your native language.the hollow space in your body echoes back at you
chimneysweep swallowing dust clouds,brushing their teeth with acid and magellanic galaxies
JUST STOP, SHUT YOUR MOUTH, GOD IM TIRED LISTENING TO THE SOUND OF YOUR SCREAMS
paranoia is smooth, blurry around the edges:
its not your fault you couldn't meet a deadline.

2.
war in your sheets and the soft folds of your belly
(and in the soles of your feet
i feel rough ground, rocks pricking into your skin
do you smell blood?)
not quite human, but vampires havent scared you for years
"**** me dry" can you taste it yet, can you feel the fear crawling up out of your stomach
your throat is so empty, a cavern without bats
stalactite secrecy pooling at your feet: this is what it feels like to be alone
sorry about the mess we made
sorry about the paint on the walls
scrubbing glitter into your arms,rubbing skin raw and red
arent you pretty? arent you pretty?
tombs cracking, mausoleums wishing for more graves to dig
havent you robbed enough for one lifetime
write eulogies for people who havent died yet,this is your calling
arent you pretty?
WHITE NOISE ON REPEAT, 10 HOURS
boxed wine stinking up the trunk of your car
(well,that and something else)
dont feel sorry for me darling
you say my name like it’s killing you,and maybe it is
thanks for the flowers and the card,what kind of greek tragedy is this
are you tired? are you tired?
what a spectacle
you,lying on a bed that doesnt belong to you,dying without permission(How Rude!)
dionysian struggle,and look,now the wine’s spilt over everything
i told you this would happen
what a pretty train wreck you are!2:30 am,still alive,
god youre bleeding on everything,how rude.how rude.
heart cut out and beating three thousand miles away under your mothers bed
oh,sweetheart
YOU KNEW IT WOULD END LIKE THIS,dissociating,can you feel the earth bend away from you?
what a demon
crust,mantle,core,screaming at the sight of you
when was the last time you believed in magic,hands on thighs
walls of the abandoned building screaming back in your face
(“i don’t give a ****” like someone can hear you
like someone cares enough to listen)
a broken Bic lighter/someone else’s EpiPen/a ****** handkerchief, shoved in the pocket of a jacket you dont remember buying.
wrapped up like holy things and you think maybe they were one time
“******* with no end” god youre so cool arent you?how edgy,how punk.how grotesque, the mess on your hands.
shouting your **** streak in the dead of night
is that supposed to impress us?are you putting on a show?Holy Prophet
here to forgive your sins
a woman sitting across from you is bleeding and you imagine swallowing her hands whole
“just let them win this time” how sweet of you,how kind!
this isnt my fault.this isnt my fault.
im just a corpse,remember?i hope you regret every part of this
i hope you choke on her fingers and i hope you die
MY GOD IT MAKES ME LAUGH
painted in the image of god:how funny.how sweet.what a nice thought
you called me a weapon like it was supposed to mean something
like it ever did

3.
mistaken king centuries old stepping on Holy feet
(can you see him?pressed up against the grass trying to disappear
god, what a ******* poseur)
frostbite kissing you,what a nice sentiment
crying with joy as it curls around you
“you just gotta be numb to it, you know?”
please marry me, oh god, i’m in love with you
my heart beats thirty feet out of my chest when im around you (that’s what love means, right)
you feel it ripping you apart,glory
smell stardust in the air and then stomp it out
it never mattered that much anyway,or at least that’s what
you tell yourself
you move like it’s your death wish, like “better here than somewhere else”, like
they taught you how to bleed in all
the right ways.on cue. on cue.
broken telephone wires/that Bic lighter, again/a pile of pumpkin seeds digging
into the palm of your hand
How To Cauterize An Open Wound
torn skin, and blood, and maybe some of your intestines, too
stick knives in your stomach(look, we match!)
there’s still a gun in your hand and it’s smoking and you don’t remember firing it (but that’s
okay, isn’t it? this has to be okay)
you built a shipyard in your ribcage,sent sailors off
to die in your throat
choking on a swarm of ******* bees
youre so cool arent you?youre so cool arent you?
you feel the ***** coming up ten years before it actually does, feel your stomach
bloating,the stench of it all
terrariums bleeding onto the streets, how ugly.what a putrid sight.
youre missing teeth,mouth gaping open
stubbed and ****** where nothing new ever grew in,
don’t know know that hate breeds hate
precious metals ooze off your tongue, join the parade! fall into
a stupor,
collect your wits and die,just die.
“i’m sorry for your loss” written on twenty different greeting cards, did you
think i wouldnt know it was you?
i bruise so easily and you know this, even with a gun breathing heavy against your ribcage.lace spiderwebs
around your neck and pull them tight this time
lighting fires with one hand,putting them out
with the other
YOU’RE SUCH A ******* MARTYR
YOU GRANDIOSE *******
your shoes are too tight, your toes are turning blue,
and i’m still in love with you even though
i don’t even know who you are anymore
god, im a cliche
does that make you happy?
god, i hope it does
you tell me, “poems are supposed to have a rhythm”
smiling like i just said something funny
i’m sorry about the dead flowers.im sorry about that night in the living room.
sorry for the things i said.
the feeling of being in motion/radiation vibrating across your tongue/a handful of snow
listen to the church choir singing--
in. out. dead. it wasnt your-slash-my fault
you say it outloud:
“your-slash-my”, the only way you can tether yourself
to something else.
someone is digging into the small of your back (ill
give you a hint:its me)
can you feel the talons? you take off your clothes, press
your body to the concrete
let the frost build on your spine,your fingers,your
legs
kiss the spool of ants where your ear used to be
swallow hard.
o, songbird! o, thrush!
the mellow winter calling (your mouth
curves around the word vociferous like you cant breathe without it--
this was always my favorite part)
“who told you the ending” and you say
god,  i just knew.
holy, holy, holy, swept off the palm of your hand like dust
rusty spoons and nails And Other Artifacts pooling at your feet
***** with revenge, or desire, or both.
[ SEVEN HOLLOW CHAPELS SINGING ABOUT LONELINESS ]
dont bury this too.not the bibelots, not the science experiments, not the smoking gun
carving itself into your palm
you will forget the ships on the horizon, the feel of someone else’s stomach beneath your hands, your tongue, your skin.
all these things, too: she said.

French pressed fun a with french kissed tea?
With tell-tale signs of want, on me?
You should have a
dactyl mackerel
for breakfast. It'll clear out your eyes
so that
you can vom'et
In my face before you finish speaking.

it's one o'clock in the morning
and it smells of drugstore perfume, daisies
mixed with something attempting
to be sweeter than sugar
when its truly salt
swirled together with
arsenic and my vapid feelings.

it's one o'clock in the morning
and it feels like static, like the fuzziness
on television screens and the
sensation of the wires in my
brain snapping from this exhaustion
that was never there till i
gave up on the phantom innocence i'd been
clinging to in the hopes it
was still clinging onto the shreds of
clothing at my feet.

it's one o'clock in the morning
and it looks as though everything has been
painted monochrome. it's a series
of hazy greys and blurry whites, but
it's mostly a black delved so dark
i can't see anything through it; it's
not transparent enough to even
glance at the stars blinking down
toward the earth because the nighttime
won't let me see anything but mysteries
and untouched memories.

it's one o'clock in the morning
and it tastes like blood, so much
blood. there's metal on my tongue
and it's everywhere because there's no
knife anywhere, just this transpiercing
pain in my stomach and my lungs are
being sliced open and the gore of my guts
is spilling onto the tile floor and there's
blood covering my hands and my
face is cracking against concrete and
i'm puking rainbows again
and it tastes of heartsickness.

it's one o'clock in the morning
and it sounds like nothing. it's
the kind of nothing that
everyone notices: the breath that
stops when one gets the news
that their loved one is leaving
them for good, the nothing after
a performance that's left everyone
contemplating the universe and love
and whether i actually want to
live at all, the silence following
the coffin being shut. it's the nothingness
of sobs and heartbreak and
death. it's the sound of
loneliness - particularly mine.