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2.13 in the morning, 2.13.
what if i’ve forgotten how to sleep and all i’ll ever do it sit here with my eyes burnt out and my skull cracked from the pressure of my brain trying to escape and hide someplace warm and safe where there aren’t any bugs or verbs or thoughts what if, for that matter, all of…
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hibou.
i don’t know what this is- contentment creeping in around the corners of the bleak and melodramatic knowledge that i’ve carried most my life this will be over soon, tomorrow isn’t anything that’s real and on waking, late, before the sun has even thought of coming by to check in with its ugly cheerful disposition…
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25th of January, 2013
It’s been a while. Beloved’s father (who signs his emails, now, love, Dad, which somehow makes me feel a little more okay in a very much not-okay world) mentioned recently that I hadn’t said much lately. Sorry about that. Sometimes there just isn’t much to say. It’s January. Cold and dark and fuck, what are…
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End of November
you can’t make this stuff up (i mean you could with a little imagination and if you drank just the right amount of cheap, cold beer before you settled in to think but it wouldn’t be real then and this is) -as real as it gets without shoving over to the other side where it…
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November Nine 202 AM
“I think I’m getting better,” I said. “What do you mean?” he asked. “My head,” I said. “Oh,” he said, “Yes.” And I believed him, because that’s what I do these days. I still need him to keep the light off sometimes I breathe better in the dark and sometimes every word is forced…
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November Again.
this is when the darkness crawls in through my eyes, making pupils grow darker than normal with no sunlight anywhere nothing reflecting, the night settles in to my bones, through my pores makes my blood thick and slow, turns my lungs to cement i can’t breathe like this and the clouds gather, silently mocking creating…
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rot.
what if one day our hands didn’t match if, while walking they didn’t draw together magnetic what if your fingers didn’t recognize mine? what if one day we shared a seat without resting our feet on each other or my head finding that place just to the left of your shoulder that seems to remember…
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spit.
Came across a folder of things I wrote but didn’t publish, for one reason or another. Everything I write is somewhat abstract, and while the more positive things might be inspired by a particular person or event, the darker, angry ones almost never are. I go through phases in which I’m appalled by our society,…
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April Fox 