exit wounds

Then we have nothing to worry about. It’s who you are, baby girl. You see the beauty in everything and everyone, no matter where you go. That part of you is never gonna change, and I won’t let it. 

Criminal Minds

reflected broken this.

i remember the taste of bathroom tiles, a sound rang through the glass, but then my reflection chips, casts a stone through, the panes we've known, to mirror these fears we throw, i just fell and shattered this.

hate type.

those with savage hearts think that they rule, but i read in the newspaper, that all of his failings do not make you a greater person.

just once more, once.

when i look around, i see great things. when i lying down on the bathroom floor, i see the blue of the wall, i see constellations in the scars, all swirling around in shitty seas. archers made of paint, they drip down to the tiles.

(she's screaming, she's screaming, she's screaming, she's screaming.)

the problem is. these things, they are only mine. no one else will know, and when you stare, some things will not share their secret name.

(you're pathetic, rot, wreck. cross your legs, teeter around your knuckles, cry into the headphones. they will never know.)

all these fucking songs, these nights. the little leaps in my chest. the way i drift under the rain. i pull my sleeves up, it makes me feel okay. i sit at the bottom of a bedroom wall and feel it crawl up over me. i'm hoping you'll notice me.

i can't take the world for what it is. it has so little magic when...

you can not expect great things from everything that does not see the stars in your paint.

it's beginning to get to me...

I want something, that's purer than the water, like we were, it's not there now, ineloquence and anger, are all we have, like saturn's rings, an icy loop around me, too hard to hold, lash out first at all the things we don't like, or understand, and it's beginning to get to me, that I know more of the stars and sea, than I do of what's in your head, barely touching in our cold bed, are you beginning to get my point?, they're always fighting with aching joints, it's doing nothing but tire us out, no one knows what this fight's about, the answer phone, the lonely sound of your voice, frozen in time, I only need, the compass that you gave me, to guide me on, and it's beginning to get to me, that I know more of the stars and sea, than I do of what's in your head, barely touching in our cold bed, are you beginning to get get my point?, they're always fighting with aching joints, it's doing nothing but tire us out, no one knows what this fight's about, it's so thrilling but also wrong, don't have to prove that you are so strong, 'cause I can carry you on my back, after our enemies attack, I tried to tell you before I left, but I was screaming under my breath, you are the only thing that makes sense, just ignore all this present tense, we need to feel breathless with love, and not collapsed under its weight, I'm gasping for the air to fill, my lungs with everything I've lost.

night reels

Sometimes you stand in the house, bent and stooped, a glass heavy for your hand, that held the carton, and you drop the glass that shatters to kitchen tiles. You pour the milk, and wait for centipedes. The light bulb clicks, glass hangs, the moths are ravenous, all carpet, hungry wings. a frame of night, fingertips arch, for corners, clockwork. And we do these things even when life is great.

on the language floor

I will be stuttering catastrophes, always counting apostrophes, and if we can keep this in lowercase, just mumble below the stage, quote this from a dream debris, write us in parenthesis.

all the things that may.

fuck all that came before. it's not impossible, you'll see.

memories to be.

there's still sparks we have not seen, the bite of stones to skin your knees.

that bites my skull

I—am—really—feeling—bad—tonight.

Intense darkness is setting in, and I can't see a fucking thing to keep me safe. I can't feel better, for hours now—these hours.

It won't pass. It won't pass. Please make it pass.

I try to remember—try to remember—try to remember. It is more than now, this moment of wounding—it is more.

You have no idea, just to write, even here, this much little safety. I hope you understand—fuck—my brain—it couldn't. But here, it is different, and I can use that.

I need something, to keep me safe—fuck—I keep stumbling.

I let a boy smile too closely, one, who doesn't really care, except that I do. And so I will keep caring, like a star, consuming itself.

And I gave another chance, because I cannot ever turn away, and all he did was pluck away my fire.

this—is—fucking—crying—my—eyes—out.

insect jar

This feels like space between the walls, all missing teeth, seven legs in the insect jar. Just an alien feeling, numbness, the crash after the fix. A lot of my systems are a mess. I need to recover, at least. And I know I will, but I always allow myself just enough damage—six legs, and one writhing.

Still, I would never give a fuck about all these things in the end, if you came close enough—all naked skin, sweat, crazy fucks, a cure and kneecaps.

Forever fearing contact.

It was a blur. It was nice. It was nothing.

But you're beautiful tonight, and the stars are burning bright, and I give this curse to you, like there's nothing else to do, so let the purple sky explode, let it shower us with toads, let the scarlet river flood, let it drown us all in blood, tonight, I guess, I'm human, so thank you, for fighting, and having sex with me.

Fuck the scene, that does not distill your means.

the more fight

I guess it is late, and I think of sleep, but my ears remain. the music hooks, and i stare at my cold feet, the lights that spin. and I guess I am already slipping into tenses. I don't know why I can't speak, or feel, unless it is for someone. I don't want to invoke you tonight. it still feels abusive. you can't turn something like that, into a form or function. so, i guess, it will have to be vague, the more fight.

but i do stare at my feet, through the wood, the dark. I imagine all the unopened mail on my desk. I imagine it at different angles, and with lines all through it, and flashing violently, and putting it in my mouth, just eating it all.

I pause up, my eyes burning through something. I squash my face against the monitor, I breath like the light bulb, slower, here.

I would glue all the coloured plastic of the cd cases, to the ceiling. I would pick up my shoes and throw them at the wall. just to see the sound, catching ghosts that were there.

these things all exist, but only when the rest of the world is not looking. when I was a kid, it was all the same. there was the big tree, the circular garden, the wooden tongues of secrecy, little stones in my knees. this feeling that takes me, it used to speak.

but this was all a noise, prickling through me. and I can focus my thoughts, sleeves pulled up a little more, trying to ignore the knee caps, the rhythm.

(and I push my head up against the monitor once more. the world falls apart safely.)

I want to write about you, even if you knew I was writing about you—you told me to. you are a tag I want to include in this, but I still try to imagine you don't see, not listen to all the violent noise in your eyes. but the world could be better, and I am controlled. I have to stop. I don't like the idea of being read. I have to imagine anyone who ever looked this way, as very far away, or else I freeze up. I push my knuckles right through my tongue, break the tense. that's the secret, and it can't exist here.

I am excited for thursday. it is hopefully something I have waited for, something fucking brilliant, wracked and shitty, shining. I really hope, just for, it to exist. that's all. everything else can just go, and be, and I will be okay.

and i can't stop dying, to get into bed, in a nice way.

I close my eyes, and I imagine more. I see photographs of places, bright mountains. but, vultures, composed of words and bullet holes, spider webs and wet tongues.

(I am staring at the ceiling.)

I like this voice, how it lets. I feel the colour fed by it, and release.

(and we were talking, about the sides of the spark.)

deuxiéme

the earth waiting.

when you're sure, i'll be stone, when you know, won't you carve me from my throne?

weeker

I feel like the girl that los campesinos sing about, the one without focus, a messy blur, trying to finish the chapter, trying to finish the song, writing lyrics down on my knees like I belong. and even, those are just lyrics. and it has been a while, and I can acknowledge that much. but then I have to wrangle all this madness, and try to divine a point, a purpose, an anchoring stone, an angry spark. but, I am lost in the mess, headphones biting into my ears.

I guess it would be safe to say, I am always procrastinating, forgiving myself for these blurs. but how long do you get? but, see, it goes sidewards: I've been busy at work, but I've lost the hunger. I hope for a renewed contract, when I need the broken nose, the door, the four winds.

(my brain dislodged here——wandering.)

I am trying to record a week, and not stumble. but where did clarity go? i'm feeling like a mess, chels, fuck. i know, it's ridiculous once more. so i'm not going to fall down here, i just need to write something coherent, and i can only do that here, it seems. i try to write, but i'm hitting a wall. i want it to move the fucking world, not just house my broken voices.

again, i said from the start, you were my motivation. these letters to you. and my brain would obey me! and remember that! then it would all be easy. i would be anchored, eternal. but it blurs and bends. try to focus. get upset.

feeling lonely again. i never get to say that out loud any more. not to anyone. everyone just laughs at you, for wanting to not be alone. or, you know, keep on waiting. and i can wait. but i want to say...i am lonely. so fucking lonely. and the only people i ever encounter, regard me as this alien. over and over. i know it's old news, so it's stupid to mention. and maybe i can't even say this, if i transfer this over to my archives - hungered eyes, you see. and i hope that never offends you, that the things i write to you: they find my head, and i have to use that... to try to bridge myself to the world. i feel bad for that. but it's not my intention, ever. you are more than a translator. you know that. you are the only colour that keeps me.

but i am feeling lonely, and lost. hospital broke my gym pattern, and now i struggle again to reign my aliens in. get back to gym. wait for my contract at work to expire... two more weeks? either get renewed as full-time, or get a new job... i just need constants. so i don't have to worry that my existence is meaningless.

i am writing this to you. i really fucking am. i swear to sparks of that...

i am lonely because i don't mesh. and i really do try. and i really do not try. because you have to be both these things, don't you? i want to be myself, but i want to try to not be so...

it's so lonely...ugh. why can't i shake that? fuck. why do i ask out loud... sorry. sorry. sorry.

and again, you save me, chelsea.

i was in the hospital. this is not related to an excuse; it just is. food poisoning, and it reminded me. when i was little, all i ever wanted to be was in hospital (or be a turtle.) i should have known the warning signs, way back. you know? walking behind trees, talking to myself, hoping for hospitals.