so tired i dont even wish people happy birthday on facebook anymore
there are birds because of your lips.
the weakness felt in lizards knees
out of envy for their fitness
turned to swelling in their ribs
& split em wide, into wings
& so they live, lofting on your breath,
the same sky i breathe when i kiss you.
3 & 20
maybe im so ashamed of myself that i completely fear what other people have to say about me and make myself callous to their opinion by hating myself as much as i could be hated for. then it wouldnt sting to know someone doesnt like me cause i already hate myself. and when i hate myself enough i punish myself to get rid of the shame.. i effectively do get rid of it cause of the satisfaction from visiting justice, although its on myself. then i can say “yeah, im hateable, but like me for the justice i bring!!” and yet it still stings when people dont like me.
if theres gonna be an apocalypse, i hope its by everyone in the world getting fat.. everyone giving in and acting on revenge.. everyone being honest.. quitting their jobs/school and sitting down and writing themselves to death. drawing themselves to death. singing themselves to death. everyone peeling back their skulls. putting their brains into their brains. imploding.
everyones in such close contact with each other theyre forgetting how to talk to themselves. and somehow skin is no longer a part of our bodies.
(and the second time you see your pride, you might mistake it for bile)
i think the most painful part of having a limb chopped off wouldnt actually be the pang itself, but the realization that it didnt hurt as bad as you thought it was going to. try to imagine a situation where this might happen, free of the horror that comes along with some sort of anticipation of pain (cause that anticipation hurts just about as much as the pain itself).. like say you and your pal are hanging out on the railroad tracks after chopping up and clearing away some tree that fell and blocked them during a storm.. you guys celebrate a job well done with some flask-scotch.. then as your buddy is vacantly striking the rail with his axe (almost like hes stuck in a sort of loop) as he listens to some story of yours.. you get kinda closer to him for dramatic effect, and then suddenly WHAM HE ACCIDENTALLY CHOPS YOUR BIG TOE OFF.. (imagine its a freshly-sharpened axe and maybe you also took your boots off cause youre a free spirit..) like suddenly your toe is gone, and where it connected to your foot hurts. but maybe the pain wasnt any worse than the worst time you stubbed/broke your big toe. then youre left there thinking “it doesnt hurt so bad” ….. “BUT MY TOES GONE OGGGGGH” .. i know, personally, id feel like i Should just man up. its only the thought thats making it so bad. but then somehow id fail to man up. the pain wouldnt have increased any since that thought.. but id still return to making it worse. i mean it seems justified, like seeing how i sorta just lost an extremity.. but thats only to the outsider. to myself id always know that the pain itself was more endurable than id made it out to be. then id feel guilty, i guess effectively tripling the pain at that point.
when i was 5’11” living in a ~6’6” high basement
in the midst of stress i read things stressful and rend myself an adolescent senile or dead by suspension of hope taut and still like the knotted leader suspending me from my throat
the crescent moon is a neon cats claw torn off in the atmosphere a smirking wound that widens and lights the house i live in
[…] loneliness resides where the voice loses its legs:
in the stifling closeness of a comforter,
in the folds of steam of another,
where all landmarks lose necessity,
leaving the mind without any objects to expand into in order to recognize itself..
a voice is something that searches when it speaks,
through its echoes, in hope of uniting the expanse
it bounces off of
loneliness is where the voice is only itself,
not itself and reverberations of.
a voice turned in on itself can only search
whats already been sought,
can only speak whats already been said.
a voice could thrive in a warm climate,
but in those cold it seems to settle for warm pockets
it seems to seek its own muffling.
and in these places,
one will notice a certain hissing.
two spots where coffee sat so long that only their brown butt-prints remain where the passing air stole them.. another stain, like milk or glaze? her fingerprints? if only these fingers were bone so i could examine this and be sure they werent my own.. or maybe if they were some microscopic needles that could caress those grooves and make them sing.. the sound of her touch; the sound of her whisper; her unstrung strings bowed, her sighing in my ear: to sleep there and awaken when shes no longer near.
youre pretty much cursed as soon as you believe in luck/fate
i think a person forms on the end of a leash let down from a star, like mold or corrosion, when it makes contact with the earth. i feel like they grow around that leash and, as its hooked to their most sensitive parts, are prone to any minute tug. it seems like constellations are responsible for people getting all grouped together and i wonder if my star has died.
took lighter fluid into a tunnel & planned my viking funeral
if i killed myself, i think i’d go by way of somersaults across route 22. or by putting my arm into a skip it rigged with a razor and rooting myself on.. not by gun, drowning or immolation, regardless of how immediately they sit before me. they’re too serious.. too out of character for me and constituting a character i don’t want to kill. is suicide still suicide if you aren’t yourself when you do yourself in?
did you feel your throat catch your stomach after the cables snapped and we plummeted? could you translate the floor display despite its flickering like dying embers in a fire? did the claws on your half of our still living, vivisected dachshund dig into your skin like my half’s did? as the steel sides of the elevator peeled back, was it the scale or the imminence of the basement floor that stole your breath? did you mind the muzak any more than the silence?