dont go into the tall grass.

nonsensical illustrations blur in the back of my mind.
a weird kind of homesickness for something,
or someone, or maybe even some place,
I know nothing about how to get around these gaping ledges in my life,
places where the sordid reality of unhappiness sits smugly between my knees.
I hate so much and so many, but forget so easily,
that maybe it's not even worth feeling sick about in the first place.

crush crush crush

Cooling down to a more anxious level ,
a windswept winding sense of time and fluidity
Listen carefully to the drudgery that sneaks under our clothes.
The glistening sweet grime that separates us.
All our bones bend and groan at the sight of our previous encounters,
falling at the last moment against the last un-surmountable obstacle left to behold.
Growing old.


Fuck me,
I don't even have it anymore.

i fell so low.

I guess it's all for the best.
Taking the long awaited but hardly expected plunge into forever.
I still hate you; quietly, secretly though, and I don't think I'd follow you around
except for the cold fact that I don't have anyone else to be following, and no other reasons to be motivated in my life. We forget and forgive and waste away, a relationship with the devil down under our skin. And I'm realizing how much I wanted someone else, something else, anything else
other than this.

dysentry

slavish and cold, we sink into the fake velor of plush forgiveness.
slipping through the nights and spaces between our gaping holes of sickness
like two splinters of wood, under the skin,
long grown over but not yet numb.
there are no more loopholes to keep us tied up,
no more strings to tie us apart,
now only space is left to listen while faith crumbles.
the world we know, grinding itself to dust.

we learn to get along

this terrible fear seeps into my skin.
the days stretch into unimaginable weeks,
long etudes of time that swirl endlessly around a single vortex.
each conversation becomes monotonous,
dull,
effortless
forced.
when the sun does come up
it’s only to blot out the sight of our skin
as we become translucent and fragile.
we turn back to our corners of the world,
back to our refuges and niches,
back to our carefully erected nests of fear.
may the world spin for you once again, my bright eyed crutch,
and sing you softly to sleep,
while we sit here instead, stare at ceilings,
and weep.