The waves of sound flourished the sleeves of skin on my arms, each phantom note prickling and moving through the tunnels of my bones. All sensations turned into a uniform euphoria. Inflicted pain felt good. All felt good. The pain inside was bleached over by this joyous numbness.
It’s been months and it could be years without seeing you but that hasn’t and won’t stop my mind from saving you in my dreams and letting me get those second chances I wake up without.
His green veins, strike, pins fall, chest falls, exhale of a sigh. I’m afraid of what might happen, the static has been built up, like going down too fast a slide at the playground. the second you touch, the bolt. Its in that separation that security hums, impatient inertia hailing. Then the arctic, her, catches in the throat, dominant and unraveled. Stop thinking. go to that concert tomorrow. Accept the happy amnesia.
Heart is no longer its rosy red drum. A blue fist takes its place.
This sickness is getting worse. These pale paradises come on, as potent and unshakable as much needed sleep. Teething on my breaths, gravity bullies me, twice as cruel. I am my own Atlas, carrying you in my chest, a dark world to carry. A world who does not want me.
Media globes cheat you into thinking that you know a place, a false sense of godliness at your fingertips. When in truth most haven’t the slightest idea how the air tastes like in Iceland or Venice.
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What cruelty, a mother whose insides are her outsides, a rabid garbling of need,the kind you find in shoe-less children’s eyes. The need to be heard and to vacuum thoughts with the rigid question. Then to be paired with the violet daughter who swims under the air and in her own shapeless sea.
A well known taboo. Written dirty, sinful, a scarlet letter to have underneath the chest. Could it be so unholy if it feels so pure? She sits next to me in figure painting. Cupid’s bow lips, afraid the arrow of their affection has shot my way. Her silk skin delicately tucked into curves and bends throughout her gently thin petite body. Her hair reaches the soft circles of her shoulders, bistre bangs that hold above her dainty asian eyes, eye lashes that point towards the celestial. Could wanting to be lip to loving lip to another be so evil?
Redundant future past present. As if a type one and two beings only live. The children’s raw puppet show opens, the velvet red spreads a storybook. The wooden figures stand beside each other, little holes in their limbs for little thread that ascends to the end. The one is the ever needy swallowed collection of tv shows pop culture slime, in the highway shopping line traffic commoner. The two, is gilded in cheap gold paint, shining its new truth, forget to check the expiration date. I continue to search for the peach soft rubber of human skin that neither wear.
Disgusted by the flailed lust and just about savage intimacy I have spoiled upon these perfect strangers. The smash the lips together in the rain hollywood perfection does not exist. I keep knitting these ugly used up excuses for these characters, these characters who had that one moonlight moment, or a couple to their name, when all in all they are the most human, the most selfish of all.
They say darlings, you have two eyelids to each eye. One outside one inside. When you close the outer, you open the one within. Its where the birth of nightmares and dreams reside. It where all your hidden fervor need want gasps from its waiting. In this place, this secret garden of mind, I find him again and again, in the arms of the boy who never loved me.
Singular and opaque, wake up with sleep swamping in my eyes. The party at the top of a hill, delinquents feet caught every now and then in a reaching brush branch. At the top we all met with a criminal and his electric table, letting beats bloom in these crisp winter winds. We dance dance dance dance and I, in the high of confidence, circumstance, and giddiness walk up to the perfect stranger and tell him how lovely I find him. Needless to say, the budding of something fierce has awakened.
I’ve snuck out of the window that swallows the wall besides my bed. Its damp, everything has accepted the rain, sucked it up selfish. My grey socks stick to my feet, mold on tightly as if to escape the cold. A lamp post flickers. Its bright breath shivering. I lean against it. The whole neighborhood is dead, a common man graveyard of day. I thoroughly wish for a cigarette.
My lips, raw and chipped away at, waver weary above the hazelnut zeal of my coffee’s surface. I really should stop biting my lip. A woman in her sixties hasn’t even touched her white capped cappuccino. She draws out her past through a window’s (fingerprint smeared and polluted with faded neon flyers) glass. I’m afraid I see my future.