what weighs heavy on my chest, on all of my limbs like tacks or stones -
I'm held down, held back, held together with spit and top-soil
bleeding out I filled the bath and could only laugh
no bad left in me,
only things that are sweet and unnecessary

like folds in sheets or stained carpet, I'm there
like an incision I exist to remind you that it does happen, will happen

you're not so alone that you cannot catch fire

As a child, I was told that anything I touch breaks. They speak of it as if it was a curse held onto me, something I cannot escape. But again, as a child, I made myself believe that it was a lie. Maybe I was just clumpsy, and that they kep saying that to scare me; to scare me so I would stop touching things. So I would stop breaking them.

But once when I was nine, my mom brought home a new vase. She plastered it into place on a corner, where it could be properly displayed. I touched it, admiring the design and how it glistens to the light. "Be careful," she said. "You wouldn't want to break that again."

For a few days, I was starting to believe that I don't break everything I touch. Not until I accidentally slipped, my feet swiped on the corner, and the art made of marble fell into pieces. And once again, I was marked. And ever since then, I believed what I was told.

Maybe that's why I'm afraid to touch you. I'm afraid to feel your warmth. I'm anxious to feel you for I might tear you apart. I can be your destruction while you are my light. I wouldn't want you to dim because of me. You deserve so much better, and so much more than the girl who broke that new vase.

You don't deserve someone whose touch can break.

it's so late i've lost track of the time
and by this point, i don't care.
i don't care what time i'm supposed to be awake, and i don't care that i won't get sleep anyways.

some days i wonder where we went wrong, where we took the wrong turn, and then i remember i never was any good at reading maps, and you don't follow directions well.

Each mind is situated on  the spectrum of belief and reality.
Both ends suffer in their search for the truth.
The man who spends his life navigating the spiritual realm.
He attempts to find the greater purpose for everything.
Every blade of grass, each eroded stone a symbol of something bigger.
The nuances of life analysed and expanded upon to their very limit.
Given meaning in the name of God or the foreshadowing omen of an individual.

The man who traverses reality, grounded in science and logistics.
His mind filled with hypotheses.
Observing outcomes to explain the inexplicable.
He fits his grass and stones into the puzzle of a greater system.
In doing so he is God and the purpose for all things he assigns.

Both men strive to be the voice heard by the masses.
Their findings recorded, read, believed.
In the end does it truly matter.
Two lives spent.
Kneeling, yearning for some kind of affirmation that their time was spent correctly.
That they added anything to the greater scheme.
Pages upon pages filled with every detail in a grain of sand.
The end comes, the ink runs, the pages wither to dust, knowledge lost, purpose forgotten.
The world keeps turning.

fingers tapping against your thigh, music note mumblings. subtract everyone else and watch the feeling
m
  u
     l
       t
         i
           p
              l
                y
disassemble and reassemble the ensemble and allocate your earnings as earnestly as you can without appearing overeager. overhearing a conspiracy between my lips and your neck. a secret isn't a secret unless you whisper it, so do it, make sure the russians don't hear us as they rush off to give reports on that look I just gave you, the one that is oh so telling. reveling in it. living in the revelation of your skin, pouring down your presence like honey, like sweet molasses dripping thick and sweet, simmering under the sun, glimmering in the water like a jewel, jealous and ****, painful and dark and dazzling. beating only in anatomical hearts, out of tune, cacophony and cruel crimson, missing someone not something, left wanting and waning in the light of a lopsided moon, farsighted and fingers that prune in purple light rippling across the walls, willing to travel the planes of your body, embodied travesty traversing the sahara, dunes doomed to be swept away by the wind, breaking and kept away, each grain unable to touch one another more than once, gorgeous enough to be pain, staking your claim on misery before the misers bury it in their own backyards, backwards discovery, a convenient amnesia, believing ruses and runes to decipher in delicate dictum like tricking a language into translating itself.

almost too much of not enough.

I want to glow in the way that a burning house does       but
I'm afraid to lose my foundations;
I've kicked them out from beneath myself so many times that I've stopped blaming god and since then, also, stopped asking him

who wants to be the pacifist that allows rot to turn to decay? I want to be the annihilator that turns lust into impassioned regret.
I will announce in the hour of concession every ill thought I've held, turned to glass beneath the pressure of my own resistance

I am powerless to act upon my desires,
I am sick in the same ways that i am well

Time to get* dressed
*Put on a smile for the world
Try to act normal.