Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedwith a mild case of weightlessness, mindlessdrifting past empty homes and the emptier peoplethat purchased them. I remember conversationswith you about existentialismand the almost intricate fabric of my mind andeverything in between, and you-- the way youpaused before making a point asthe words defined themselves in your head:I remember the day I told you I was God.Creator of all things unimportant, trappedin the body of a girl with nothing left to give, youbelieved meit must be a beautiful placeinside your head, with a worldthat revolves around hope and expectationsthe way it was supposed to; allstorybook-perfect like thewars promise we’ll one daybecome[I’d like to think that every great leaderonce cried themselves to sleep wonderingif they’d ever mean anything anddid things to stand out like smokingor drinking or pretending to be someonethey’re not and every morning they’d tilt
Dandelion QueenI dream of the ocean;that paper-thin line wherethe current swallows the starsand the water churns violet(you tell me to bequiet,dandelion queen, we'veheard all these words before)tonightI will sleep heavyand wake a few hours before dawn,only to forget my namemy wave-weathered heart will cry,I will cry (my biggest fearis drowning in too manyof my own weighted wordsyou tell me to bequietso I can hear the world breathe)I want to go home
wallflower clippingsthere's scar tissue in her throat,swollen around the words she never said;dark rings around her eyeslike planets unremembered, anda staleness to her touch,the crystalline Dead Sea.she's living like a storythat's already been told"if no one loved youwould you mean anything at all?"in that moment,we forget to exist.
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you1. I have a habit of lying, aboutthe simple things (like, yes Iforgot to remember and I swear bysoul mates and I’m in lovewith your susurrus voiceand no, I’m really doing fine).It was not an act of infidelity becauseI believed it, too.2. I’m infatuated with the conceptthat I am more or less fictional, thedelusive beauty a million men willdedicate novels to: I am fragile,a dust angel sent to save the worldfrom commonalities andmyself.3. Since I’m not allowedto remember your nameI will commemorate youin acts of escapism,killing off the piecesof the person you left behind.4. I believe in a past lifeI was a bird with a tendencytowards tall buildings; the sorry kindof bird with heavy bones and crumpled wingswho never quite learnedto fly away.5. I miss you. I used to thinkyou were a person, but now I knowyou’re the happiness I will neversee.6. I'm sorry.
checklist of a masochistiiiyou were an untouched sunset,never before seen and familiarat the same time; delicately sheddingshades of pink the same colorof your starving voiceand I was most beautifulwith my clothes off, too much skinintersected by too many lines (neverthe near parallel you longed for)a hazy blur that made the nightsour own watercolor clicheiiyou were that cheap love songthat never sounded authentic,lyrics stitched through yourpaper skin; chords resonatingfrom your every wanting sighand you were surprised how muchyou needed me, from the concrete solidityof my ribs to the metaphoric indecencyof my thoughts, naked and tremblingfor your callused ears (or maybeit was just me, justifying the wayyou skinned my anxious layerswith your ravenous hands,like underfed beasts)iyou were the child cryingat shadows pretending to be monsters,running from the prospect ofgod and death and gravity;& you were the letter I never sent"I'm done apologizing forthe person I wasn't befor
scraps and sacramentsyou,beautiful siren girl with melodiesentangled in her hair: you areshell-shocked and sea-struckeven though you cannot standthe sensation of sand beneathyour toes.you have fingers for prying, picking,pulling at your skin and nestingin that hollow space betweenyour bones. and if anyone asks,you will swear there are monsterssleeping in the concaves of your ribs;there are ghosts beneath your tongue,embittered, and you are not the wordsyou speak.they say there is an answer, little girl(sometimes you begin to believe you area scarecrow on the border of realitybegging people to turn the other way;and the mirror will agree)how far have you gone? a feather inthe breeze who won’t promise to returnagain; there is a wandering warmth inthe hesitation of your harbored fear.where will you be in six months whenthe future has become itself and youare still astray? little one, no one is like youin the way you sway to the cadence of adissonant night. no one knows your
existentialism and shoddy metaphorsI was violet-cheeked anddiamond-hearted; a workof art in reverse,tearing between my ribsand calling it beautiful,and I wonder now why theynever taught me this in school;the sepia-saturated glow lifegives out some point afteryou’ve realized wishes arefor those who’ve not yetwoken more alone than whenthey went to sleep,they never taught me allthe reasons why or thatsin tastes sweet. I metmy maker once in a backalleybar, stormy eyes and peppermintbreath, charming off a hangover;he sighed, “I know how manydays it’ll take you to give upcompletely. I know how manydreams you’ve sold away andhow many lies you need toswallow before you can fall asleep.I know that you’ve never quitegrown up and I know thatyou’re afraid of me” hesmiled silent and downedanother drink, losing himselfin the ramblings of a solipsisticexistence where “I” am finally allthat matters (and sometimesI believe I was built hollowlik
Ephemeral1.i wake up and tear the sunfrom the sky like this is agrade school art project and iam supposed to share somethingworthy of myself-- i thinkthere is a black hole nestledbetwixt my lonely ribs,devouring anything alive.on days like these, my greatest weaknessis weakness and i am my own fatal flaw.we live by mantras and my ears ring‘i hate every piece of me’(he put his head to my chestand heard me dying;call me beautiful now)2.we are the false ends of sunkenuniverses, we are pieces ofdead galaxies and you arestardust, god, you arebeautiful.i believe that this is all just a dreamby someone with an imaginationbigger than the word “no,” that weare pawns in a game not worthremembering, but when i’m with youi’m real.i never took kindly to thingsthat required codependency,the uncalloused portionof my frostbitten heartbut god, you arebeautiful.
a different explorationwe talk aboutastrology and ex lovers. the raspberriesdying in the heat, the way the waterbit our skin, the homeless man set outto buy California, the center of our universe,you. that feeling labelled “blah,”and the notion I am not my own.we leak questionslike overrun rivers, excess spillage,draining curiosities about that tragic skeletonballed up beneath your clothes.and for you,I’d travel the length between heartbeats,shallow and vain like your promises,your liquid eyes.above all, we were lucky.miracle children. one in ten,one in a million, a pair of stragglersin seven billion exempt fromclarity and unclaimed skin.-I know this guy who hadsorry lips and scars down his spinewithout a story. we didn’t havea thing to say so we talked abouthow the stars were our newest horizon,the undefined, and how we’d escape to themsome day.
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