my voice has gone, ghosts. i am sorry. i always feel like i should be sorry, sorry to these ghosts. if you ever wait, i'm still here, ghosts.

zero

Thanks to Olivia, my favourite O, and almost zero.

bronte

‎now your bowl is empty, and your feet are cold, and your body cannot stop rocking, i know, it hurts to let go

since the day we found you, you have been our friend, and your voice still, echoes in the hallways of this house, but now, it's the end

we will be with you, when you're leaving, we will be with you, when you go, we will be with you, and hold you till you're quiet, it hurts, to let you go

we will be with you, we will be with you, we will be with you, you will stay with us.

the best I ever had

Thanks to Robbie.

night.

all that was great goes cloudy, everything that licked the skin now cold. i couldn't risk laying in the grass, and you are nowhere in my blood.

the night moves. it is not slow, not now. it takes half of your head, leaving you in circles. i press every song deeper to my skin, but nothing.

i have shown no anger but why in the absolute fuck would you once more come so close? i was fine! my heart is stronger than everything that hangs from it. but, again, i come low, and simple, and think you mine. and you - you - you, just an echo of the stars, that permanent grin. why try to haunt me? because the simplest game is the only thing that throws me. because malice, what nourishes you. i hadn't - i had not - my eyes were not yet - these irises still shrinking to take in your light, and that you rush from the room, the day.

i can't make sense.

my spark still a spark made alone.

all I day

All I need is light. All I need is love. All I need are my shitty arms, and my slowest feats. All I need is the mess—you smeared over the couch, crumpled sandwiches at midnight, a train card stuck in my teeth. All I need is that hallway, that broke the door down, knuckles like knots in your hair.

—Ian William L.

in your light

i can see the last drum beats of the sun, my mouth still stung from your song.

starry configurations.

dear infatuation,
you do not see me
die here beside you
in see through obscurity.

jets to brazil; starry configurations.

i can't speak of the world like that. my words are torn and ugly, limping between intentions, they lose the form. whole frozen places shatter in that instant, spittle washed up against your turned cheek. and if you knew the tongues of the wreck, i think turned to steam, the kind you never felt passing, then a thousand tiles passed.

IV.

a breath that wants for your throat, burning up the night star.

III.

a breath tonight i carry so cold.

mend

Mend an object. As you mend, you mend something inside your soul as well. You mend something in the world as well.

Yoko Ono

one day when i'm happy, i won't have a voice any more, or maybe i will find it, i can't tell either way. tonight is only the smallest colour, when today was so bright: all my friends crashed to the mini golf course. but tonight i wanted to retreat, and every time i retreat i feel a little better and a little worse. i think retreating is movement, but it's not a constant movement. you only retreat so far and then all the teeth are poisoned and all the minutes hold eyes - the hands move, watching. then you walk forwards but with such small colour, it is to face a fog of things removed, memories of gas, not the steam i look with wonder that licks the bathroom where i've gone. but moving back to the front where everything is close and sharp, heavy to snap bone with - (blinking light, one instant, hands on forehead). the march back only gets you so far, never as far as you were.

and what fucking madness: i was going to create something. i don't want the truth, not this truth, truth from fear.

but this can go nowhere further. (snapped off here, eyes full of angry border places.)

i have a total crush on you, baby

the beautiful measure

II. Life is a long and beautiful breath, tempered by the cruelty of breathing.

a strum catches in my throat, those fingers capped, we were crooked once, a song i thought, catching only smoke.

an almost sadness

This is a journal entry. It is a quiet storybook, with a picture of a tree all dressed up in blues. there would be pictures of feet—cold —the kind of feet you can't match to a face, or maybe you would think that person was incredibly sad, by how cold their feet were. I think coldness is sometimes sadness. I think cold feet on cold floorboards are pretty, but cold, and sad, and blue. So it is just you sitting quietly, and you look outside, at a tree all dressed up in blues.

But it is important to remember that a blue day, a world of blues, still has its colours. There is also a crumpled picture: two neighbourhood ducks. I think they came down in a storm one day, and have remained since. I looked out the window, just past a tree all dressed up in blues, and there they are, together, such small things, out of place, and jarring in their togetherly smiles. I see two ducks against a metal fence, wire, sky come crashing to the ground. But they just stay together, finding life where they fell. they are so happy. They make me so happy.

Don't worry, I see you, too. I see you most.

I have ordered two new books, The Lover's Dictionary, and Naïve. Super. I always need things that take my whole attention, so I don't need to stay anywhere in between.

I could not write any more, without fear of safety, and how your eyes are always heaviest.

you look so sad.

I.

i breathe you in, i take you far, the death for a child, a love for the heart.

for lovers and fighters

"Sometimes while I ride the subway I try to look at each person and imagine what they look like to someone who is totally in love with them. I think everyone has had someone look at them that way, whether it was a lover, or a parent, or a friend, whether they know it or not. It’s a wonderful thing, to look at someone to whom I would never be attracted and think about what looking at them feels like to someone who is devouring every part of their image, who has invisible strings that are connected to this person tied to every part of their body. I think this fun pastime is a way of cultivating compassion. It feels good to think about people that way, and to use that part of my mind that I think is traditionally reserved for a tiny portion of people I’ll meet in my life to appreciate the general public. I wish I thought about people like this more often. I think it’s the opposite of what our culture teaches us to do. We prefer to pick people apart to find their flaws. Cultivating these feelings of love or appreciation for random people, and even for people I don’t like, makes me a more forgiving and appreciative person toward myself and people I love. Also, it’s just a really excellent pastime."

—For Lovers And Fighters; Dean Spade

it was only one missing floorboard, when we fell through, and i retreated, a little quiet, the scared fire, the violent child.

yet symphony to bloodied lips, yet fist fight as breathing.

the face

But my face has been the bigger advantage. I have the two qualities you require to see absolute truth—I am brilliant, and unloved.

Doctor Who

13248711

A cold scratch to a woodland thigh, then spine ran down the earth lit touch.

glossolalia

I will calmly state the facts. I scrawl a few notes: last week was uneasy, spilling at the throw. This will happen in periods of change. Sometimes taking notes and making lists is not enough. Sometimes there isn't enough ceiling to stare at, isn't enough story in the song. But it is another violence survived, another badge on my ward, iron feather. (and here the perilous point, where my mind stretches, abstracts, to other matters. I think of being alone. I think of smiling. I think of what I could do, but will not.)

But if I write about my life, then it is a journal entry I don't want to keep. I think that defines moving inwards, which I do—so the fear? I am not sure. It feels like announcing that, so loudly: I will not create. Only rest in stomachs.

I will always report the world felt, hold my forehead, where fire settles. Don't lose it yet—but Chelsea is the only one who can drive me outwards. My tenses forge—what sense! But, without, I try to take the colours of havoc, and stretch them out, nailed down—spider teeth—for they to show. In my head, the only point that matters is that all of this is just an introduction. I haven't moved to the end yet—told that—but, always seems to be so. The end for a fast mess. Even though I was careful to make notes, and structure lists. But I am keeping calm for now. Saturday allows me that much. ("you can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness") I count cat hair, and see volcanos. Plasma reaching out across her, unaware. All the ghosts that she must see, and my expanding skin. Guard me, keep me, know me.

I will turn to demons, but what did I want to say? The problem is even though I am calm, and safe, in Saturday (the late hours, the bottom of cups, something pretty), I can no longer write. I have recorded this so many times now—the slipping tenses, hiding my eyes from yours, even here. If met, what for collapse, I remain forever afraid. My brain will not let me. I am not sad, but I cannot pen a single line, that would greet you calmly, the weather, (the broken backs of) sports. I cannot write in first person, or not with head up, eyes ahead—you, standing in the field. I will always be looking away, unable. He was sown strange. He was reaped with the walls coming down. Whole things thrashing their bones into one. Too sensitive to every soul, and word of oak.

Which would drive me to heat up, the crown of fire, electric divine, fucking violence of time. I would speak—a nonsense—and strung between worlds. Parts of books yet to be born, but teeth already pulled, shirt collars, and bullets across the sun. And, see, is that a colour? A thought? A pattern I am tracing—always tracing. I want sense. For I am happy, or in between. Passenger of light bulbs and heavy glow. The smell of pupils, that which sees the night. I speak of fucking eyes, the dark. I am getting somewhere here, with this, though I was retreating, the patron saint of—

I wish this writing had a colour to say I was happy, because i was. I was okay. But it's still a sale. I will always be this way—unable/possibility. Defined as a freak, and then an angry song gives me the taste of blood.

somebody that I used to know.

come clean

the venom begets you, and everything you never speak.
(i have to make this colour.)

your lonely furs
(waiting.)

you're better than this?
(i am simply in autumn.)

you're better than this.
(guarding my shoulders, the sun burn.)

but you're only under light bulbs
(i did have a voice.)

really, believer?
(i have to. i always have.)

what licks your wounds
(i promise.)

i retreat, in steamy breath
(but recall knives.)

you will never give this.
(no one means or sees.)

the path
(sold to clocks.)

a smile
(hope.)