Black or Gold,
all in the mold,
as we uncover
and rediscover
who
we
are
through
the roadmaps
of our memories.
Sad or Happy,
telling every story,
secret tales
unfolding  
openly;
shared with you,
shared with me,
together walking
by the rivers of history.

dearest stranger,

i am too abstract now for my own good. i feel and hold myself, in place, in my hands and i slip right through like sunlight, like tiny moth scales, like the delusions of a sauntering ghost, like all things unreal and untouchable, like a madwoman, laughing away in her free fall to an unsteady ground.

and all the flowers are cheering in their surreal, psychedelic scarlets, and all the rocks are breaking, and all the words are failing to capture what i truly feel.

am i still despairingly corporeal, like paper napkins and panes of glass? am i still in actual flesh, now that god doesn't exist? am i still as tangible as this last, frantic breath of a letter?

am i still actually here?

bidding my farewell now,
ginia

when will the world quiet down into a throbbing, feeble ***** that i can so easily crush?

i spend my days sighing away, digging away at each layer of disillusionment. when will i get to the bottom of this? when do i get to see my bones, all bleached out to a lifeless tan? when do i get to poke them around like live coals, desperately reviving a dying fire? when do i get to see myself, in my highest, truest, most foolish form, and have the closure — both underwhelmed and overwhelmed?

i've lived longer than my younger self would've allowed; tell me, did she know me much better? did she live just long enough for me to inherit her despair? have i gone dancing too much with illusive lights, only to get home heavy, burning, and blinded? did she know it all along? did i know it all along?

tell me, was it all for this? tell me, in the name of all my splendid highs and in the drawn-out silence thereafter  — is this it?

i tire myself out. i bite on my heart and spit it out — press my fingers on the dents, the teeth marks, the parts that are supposed to hurt. and i watch as it breaks into a thousand glasses. dreams. futile daylights. i watch, ever so quietly. i watch, unfeeling.