i only feel like writing when i'm sad and oftentimes i don’t feel like anything. i'm so tired of talking about it – (but i have nothing else, nothing else to say.)
sometimes i feel like sitting and howling and i don’t even know what’s wrong – lying in bed in the middle of the night, bones itching more awake than i've ever been yet so tired that my eyes feel more like a concept than a reality breathing too fast, existing is a sluggish shift
he lives in a place where every day is the end of the world. and it might seem contrary, but he spends his time tending flowers. when asked, he says he doesn’t think much of it. “is it the end of the world,” he wonders, “or is it just the beginning of it? perhaps history runs in reverse, and we just don’t know it. time is such an elastic thing, never to be had until it is ready. and if today is the day i leave the end of the world, then i would like to spend it lying, in my garden.”
misery is a cold lover. i am swaddled in layers yet shivering in the mild autumn air, and his embrace brings me no comfort. i shake as if my soul is trying to shed my flesh. i tremble like a quake has come for my body, only. my vision fades when i rise, and the darkness is familiar – if not warm –
one summer, she tried to recreate the sun, in her bedroom: allusion and alchemy, hubris and hedonism – those layers she laid to feel warmth on her skin fell short of light enough, and those lights were never as sweet –
instead of ambition there is persistence instead of memory there is routine i live to forget, i forget because i live that the road back to the place where i feel safe leads to a locked door and i don’t remember what’s behind it
(“sometimes, i feel like my dreams are dying.”) nebulous, foetal – barely conceptualising the idea of being born yet already at a state of eternal demise, stuck forever in the prelude to a premature end but infinity minus a million is still infinity, and i'll never be laid to rest
you are the daemon
of slumber
and he never
sleeps –
(like the water he
rises from every time,
always moving
around it.)
you don’t let the
sentiment pass your
grin but this is just
another sense
in which he escapes –
one more way
you’ll never have him
and
it makes you think that
maybe he’s the god of
elusion, and he’ll
dodge every attempt
to pin him in place –
(oh, you know
from your brother’s
beloved butterflies
that you aren’t the
only one left
yearning.)
it's of no consequence.
some things are just
the fates’ design, the
true
illusion found in the hope
that wake
sometimes, i feel like my hardest struggle is convincing myself i'm not going to die when i can’t trust the person i'll be in three months when i can’t trust the person i'll be in three days i am so afraid of change
love is the feeling of a migraine masked by ibuprofen – painless, but with a persisting tension at the base of your skull (we can pretend the issue doesn’t exist for just a little longer)