this is scrambling out of the shower,
slick with water turning to ice,
and watching, wrapped naked in a towel,
hand against the door,
as they pull out of the garage.
and knowing you fucked up, and still blaming them.
and pulling your clothes on in a rage,
underwear, sports bra, flinging soggy hair out of your face,
pulling a t-shirt over your head and wriggling into running shorts.
this is thundering down the stairs, running to your room,
forgetting what you want, sprinting back up.
this is the bird's heart thrashing in your throat.
this is grabbing your shoes with one hand and with the other your permit,
snatching up your dad's
anything anything but another dripping night
when dull slow-moving tears run gray cobwebs through pinching lashes
clarity twists behind a rippling sheet, warped through shower curtains.
there are no nails in my feet, no thorns on my brow,
but even this is false, because
god damn i don't believe in anything,
and i guess if you really think about it,
listlessness evokes the most sheer kind of wrath;
i feel no obligation to hate and love,
kill the ant and hold the baby,
this is when my vision droops to crimson,
blood runs down my sink
as the claws come out,
testing the nearest meat
for flavor, for feeling
10/1/12
point sheathed feet toward the dunes,
with wind parting the yellow grass hair,
and your own runs silver like the water,
in the water,
pulling softly back,
shells curling in under your hands,
moon and stars like smiling eyes closing,
and the water closes
like a gentle book breathing dust over your face,
with its imprints of lips and teeth and faces,
and to your right the pier and the wheels and the fireworks
and under you the cusp of the great ocean, a great wheel turning.
your neck sliding in dark water
must be the most beautiful thing
drifting towards the distant forest
that lies silent under the waves
under the waves where
this is scrambling out of the shower,
slick with water turning to ice,
and watching, wrapped naked in a towel,
hand against the door,
as they pull out of the garage.
and knowing you fucked up, and still blaming them.
and pulling your clothes on in a rage,
underwear, sports bra, flinging soggy hair out of your face,
pulling a t-shirt over your head and wriggling into running shorts.
this is thundering down the stairs, running to your room,
forgetting what you want, sprinting back up.
this is the bird's heart thrashing in your throat.
this is grabbing your shoes with one hand and with the other your permit,
snatching up your dad's
anything anything but another dripping night
when dull slow-moving tears run gray cobwebs through pinching lashes
clarity twists behind a rippling sheet, warped through shower curtains.
there are no nails in my feet, no thorns on my brow,
but even this is false, because
god damn i don't believe in anything,
and i guess if you really think about it,
listlessness evokes the most sheer kind of wrath;
i feel no obligation to hate and love,
kill the ant and hold the baby,
this is when my vision droops to crimson,
blood runs down my sink
as the claws come out,
testing the nearest meat
for flavor, for feeling
10/1/12
It's a stabbing sight
Letting in the morning with a crack of the shades
And you forget you could page-turn horizons
Waft through free territory
Where acres are just beds
Made of fresh land
Wrinkles in the river
Tell remembered times
About old languages that could make you cry
About soft beds that carve away canyons
A speaking voice lifted from the earth
Begging you to remember
Noticed in Committing by enigmaticsmile, literature
Literature
Noticed in Committing
I started committing suicides. They were small at first, but more grandiose as the months passed.
At first, I came up with basics: wrist slashing, hanging, overdose, jumping off a building, and stepping off in front of bus. They were all very mundane, really, and if not done properly you just end up living very, very painfully. It was after those routine ways to snuff oneself that I began to get creative.
There was going into a biker bar nude and starting fights with drunk bikers. And when I say "fights", I mean with a knife in my hand. That was a fun night. Everyone was freaked out and angry at the same time. They all wanted to kill
I've had this account for a year or so, but I've only started posting this week... A bit sad, really, but what can you do? I love Pablo Neruda and Mumford and Sons and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I love poetry, and I love fanart. :) That's about it for now.