schizophreniahollow godswhisper heaving static--i dream of ghosts.
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
syracuseListen to the audio version for the full effect, pretty please.cloudshot sky like an oil painting and i am watching theseagulls. i--darling, i will swim for youand swallow every whitecap.i will pluck myself a coat of pelican wings,sew them up with salt and spray--become icarus for you.you are calling me across the waves, love--but you pull against the achein my bones, the hollow--the clawing out for unseen sunsets and unturned tides.i hear you, lovegive me time.i will always listen.
hallelujah .:commish:.Storm--and the desert inhales,inebriated on an atmosphere thickwith electricity and promise.Each tiny daylight isa new rapture.They tremble.
stockdesperately we cling to smoothstocked guns until they splinter in our palms, and we know the smell of steel, yes, and it is an old friend. between the split lips and the bruised hips somewhere we are defined, distilled like whiskey and rougher yet and beneath the hunter's moon we smile.
letter to a little me1. these are the anniversaries that will stay with you,for better or worse:september twelfthjanuary twenty-fifthaugust fourteenthdecember twentieththings go up in december, as if the coming of a new yeargives the old one a kick in the pants.look forward to decembers.time likes to tie weights to your collarbones with silk ribbons.right now i am two years into a subdued grief,five years into a wild regret. but don't be scared;just as many feathers balance out the iron.i am three years into something trulywonderful.2. you will get better. the words on the page will eventually come a bit closer to the pictures in your head.by the way, you think in pictures--you don't see that now,but look for it. use it to your advantage.stop with the heavy moralizing. you try too hard.you will abandon false modesty and snobbishness,as you will find out that they are not attractive qualities.you will, however, trade them in for navelgazingand perhaps a bit of haughtiness and pre
lucidityyou were all dead ends and flypaper,so when she had her tenthnightmarethat week, and woke upsweat-drenched and howlinglike a dying creature, you cursed down thoughtsof thirty-day notices,and you packed upand you left the front door wide openand you started driving.a state and a halflater, the sun rose,and she was loose and soft in the backseatand you could rest easy, makingtiny movements of the steering wheelto compensate for that littlemagnet twitchbehind your ribs,anchoring you north.the first time you stopped for gas,you had this impractical fantasy ofditching the little blue Fordand walking—but you looked at herand you smiled,and there would be time enough for thatlater,anyway.state linesare such feeble constructs.one night she leaned close into your side,her hand tracing patterns across the ridgesof your shoulder blades,and she whispered,"let’s go home,"but she held the wheel still when you tried toturn it."home."north.when the oc
with thanks to frost Now with a reading.two roads diverged in a soulless dawnand you pull over,idling on the shoulder of route 50.it's a polaroid morning andthe world is as grainyand sleep-heavyas your eyes,and one million milesis not far enough.it plays back, filmstrip,blurred along the length ofoptic nerves,and here you are:facing a choice betweenonandout.and this?this loosejointed, hollowbodiedweightless ache--this is whatgonefeels like.
unchainedi have seen sunrisesbloody and feral.i have walkedinto thewind.
beauty is a state of mindforgiveness is thescent the violet leaveson the foot that stomped it;I am beautiful in remembrance:I am beautiful in a body two sizes too large, in eyes dilated with questions (eyesyou cannot name; gray like the ocean, blue like the heart, green like the fever dream I cannot wake from) I am the hair of a lion, a wild thing, ignition upon tempted glance. I am the skinyou cannot name, always fleeting; the chameleon you always see but never truly take in. and I know a boy carved of ivory silence, &
Mollusca1.Find whatever it is that is your treasure.Bury it alive.2.I wrestled the guardian angel for my birthstone,just a pearl like some full moon risen from a mollusk's growing pain.I counted the sheets of nacre like birthday candles,peeled away each one until I at last rememberedthat what I treasure is an infection.3.It was a gentle kind of wrestling,not Biblical, not even assertive,more like the way two sprite wolf cubs play,a light lunge, a jovial snarl,a fight over nothing in particular.The guardian angel renounced itselfas a guardian angel, saidI am a siren.I lie in the tunnels of nautilus shellsand sing until I collapse with the echoes.Then it hurts, like a shard of the wrong songembedded in my skin.4.It never healed the ache of adolescence,just buried it under a fall wound's nacre.Said one day, it'd show up in my smile.5.On the day of the dewinging:bury me alive.I want to see what I can agitate the earth into.
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
following the colossussome days i forget my existence -lost and writhing and twisting my wrists in someepileptic search of the cosmos for lonely gods andtheir shadows hidden among the dying stars.with one finger one brushed my face and spoke to mein ancient languages of the tree lords and flying kingdomsbelow and told me of how he longed for the feeling offleeting time and of the stars that were birthed inside him.he sobbed and crouched and the earth moved and trembledwith swift movements in unheard-of dimensions and directionsand he whispered of winds and sandstorms filling his lungs,"i am disintegrating, i am disintegrating, i am disintegrating."and he told me the secrets of the galaxies and of the warsand peacetime shrouded in fallacy and lost loves whowithered away in his hands, blew away from thought, eyes,and fingers.yet in his tears he smiled and screamed and screeched thebooks of centuries and millennia, gnashing his teeth inrhythm with his heartbeat and sang death songs until hed
i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
terabyte ruinswe've clicked the help buttonon the tool bar.we're the first to admit we're confused.this morning the council met with a proposalto replace god.there have been complaints."dear eternity, i'm disillusionedyour god is a single snapshot of deep spaceand a soundtrack of silence.i tried pressing reset.my old model featured google images,a personal blog, and a comment section.yesterday's god had to be recharged.it was a rough way to be hardwired,but there was a five-year money-back guaranteeand excuse me, but i'm dissatisfied.i'm not so sure about redemption,and i saw it on the news yesterday:they recalled the golden rule.it had a bug called desire."give us a refund,and we'll continue shopping.our browsing has offered upsome promising candidates:headlights, streetlights,and technological giants.we're not sure yet, god,but we're pretty sure you're out.it doesn't come highly recommended,but we're considering a newer model:idolatry. instant gratification.passion.
forgetting how to sleeptake two.a week past the end of the world,and there’s something therapeuticabout not caring. I must’vereally messed up in another life. Iwake up shaking and forget to sleepshaking and hold your hand, shaking,remembering the moment I becamepoison. I feel crazier than ever; cementhead’sgood and gone with his plastic wristsand missing soul. the boy who entertainshis unfriendliest nightmares couldn’tmuster up enough innocenceto make it right. (today, he writesa letter; dear Sophia, he tells meit doesn’t get better. I’mlocked up for a crime Ididn’t commit. you did it,Sophia. you built mewrong.) but you know me,I fell in love with a problem Icouldn’t fix, a boy blindedwho’s never seen the light.He was a stormy violet but Iam cyan graying with age--I spent most of my life dying,and the rest of it wishing Iwas someone else. they tell usonly god will see your ugly;and the girl who swallowedrazorblades can&
zeroi sworei would never number the poemsi wrote about myself because thatwould be like ticking off the daysuntil my breakdown;i was a moth, unapologetically throwing myselfat any gleam of hope; wasting my wingson industrial promisescolors always felt much moreappropriate for the purple boilingbeneath my heart and the pallidpurposelessness of my head,but i was born into a colorless world--no one sees me behind the metallic scarsof my skin and iron grating of my voice againstthe grain; no one sees me as more thangray regret or monochrome mistakes,no one sees me butall i ever wanted was for afallen god with feathered heelsto believe in me: to pray uponthe monuments i built forbroken dreams and to baptize mein his tainted tears,i just want him to be real. morethan anything, i want to be real, i wantto be more than an imaginary friendto various mental limitations; i wantto trade my liquid skin [evaporating]for a chance to bei am a moth and you are the lighthousei
I am the wayward childI wish I had something more to offerwhen your joints ached and your bones creakedand you wept dust; (the cobwebs aroundyour tongue were a comfort once)but I am three times screwedover backwards and turned right around,breathing in gravel and praying onthe only consistencies I know likeon Sun-day we are in the house of Godand it won’t rain and dad won’t speakand mom will sit with pursed lips countingall the times we didn’t kiss her goodbyeand everyone will call it normal,everyone will look at the way I write wordson cracked pavement and get glassy-eyedwhen they speak softly and forget the soundof my own voice when I’m afraid; all those times Itripped over my own feet and walked awaywith wounded knees, and they will call me normal.I’m at it again, building barricadesfrom ashes and calling them friends(this here is fear, he visits me nightly;and that stale stain in the corneris actually anxiety, recuperatingfrom the moment it caught a
On Love UnconditionalSow your wild oatsand roam;I'll leave the light on.
.I don't need ghosts, I'm already haunted enough by the living.
Things I would Tell Her--C.I want to tell her the thingsI'll tell her when she’s older,but the information terrifies her.In order of importance:she has luna moths in her head,monarch butterflies in her stomach,and a feral fetus in her womb.Her handsare collapse-clasped and foldedin her lap;she holds her elbows like wingsaway from her ribs,ready to flap,to flutter,to fly.I want to tell herto keep one hand in her purseso she can always find her keys,to keep an eye on the doorand the door always openso she can run if she doesn't feel safe,but her cheeks are rorschach-splotch redand the tension in her shoulderswarns me she's not readyto hear this.And there is the possibility thatmaybe I’m not ready to tellthis fourteen-year-oldnow woman,I’m just as devastated as her;that she is surrounded by friends and familywho are violated by a communitywhere no man can say yes all men.
interlopershow me god the way your motherknew him, show me the mark onyour body where he stoppedyou from suicide, where he changedyour winters to summers andback again.address me by my first name to showme that your respect for me hasn'tdied, letter by letter, buried betweenthe bow of your hips alongside ouronce-strong playground love.tell me the preacher was lying as hespoke of our comely desire falling tothe destructive hand of a deity no onehas ever seen, but feels as they speakin tongues that never matched the ones ispoke in to finally tell you thati felt for you.don't leave me in some drunken tantrumacross state lines, slurring words asyou try to tell me your love for someoneelse is vivid and living in you, even in theparts that have died away, breathing outalcohol as you use the word "never".curl into me with intimacy, touching the sadnessout of me, because i always wanted to bethe one you love, not the one you loved.
.it's the kind of winter nightwhere the cold stays in my bones, no matter how highi crank the heat
When the Mountains Turn BlueThe nights you spend alone feel themost familiar, but you can’t define it.Intangible, like the way a field of cottonbreathes before a rainstorm, or thosepieces of yourself, left behind on thefar away sidewalks of your childhood.One day it will be the hottest summerrecorded in fifty seven years.Your wife and children will be somewherewithout you so you’ll sit on the porch andsweat out the memories. You’ll think about the time your fathertook you on a road trip to the Rockies.The only time you ever spent alone with the man.You’ll also think about the nights when he slepton the couch and how your breathsmells like his…completely.You can’t remember if the mountains wereblue back then, but they are now.The day forgets you as you pull back another tab.
.grievingmother,a full moon;fit to burstwith silvermilk,weeping
tiny vesselsgod cried for us that afternoonon the rocks, if I could be soselfish; you had your handsgrasping at my empty vapors beforeI’d had the chance to whisperto you. I see you shaking. I know you’re hungry and I know the temperature of your eyes when you lie. you said you were lonely.half-truths are the essenceof symbiotic relationships, yourfingers trailing along my hips,glacier blue eyes holding mestill. the rapids churned. godcried for me that afternoon.he was selfish, too.
I would have stayed up with you all night...Do you ever have those times when, for whatever reason, you can't fight the melancholy off anymore? Some little thing happens, and it's kind of a downhill trip from there. The strangest part is, I don't really have a single reason to be sad right now, not really. I'm just about on spring break (one paper to go), and I've got lots of fun stuff planned with friends for the upcoming week.Sometimes I'm afraid of the sadness inside of me, 'cause I don't know where it's coming from or where it's flowing to. And it's really a lousy way to live life.The worst part, though, is that no one around me quite gets it. I am forever in this mood, but they're so much shallower [and happier].Meh. Here are a few of the songs that are haunting me currently (and I apologize for the length of this journal...it kind of got out of hand. ):__________Feature:Please love on :iconsasukesadork: for me - she's got many amazing pieces that deserve more love then they've be
empty, fullthere are stars at the bottomof this bottle.in your head,there are other bodies--breathing.