afluxior

i want to do great things and expect nothing in return. i really fucking do. i have tried, and i do, and i don't. i write this down, because words for me have always stood strong, to the extent that i wouldn't speak. or, they take guilt and flight.

i am in the flux, my feet unstuck the mud, testing my pages in the water.

i need the guilt, i need the flight!

i need the guilt, i need the flight.

i would never write a bio for you, i really do not think. i am a rubber band, flung from the stick, an easy brilliant thing. i won't really acknowledge any of your violence, unless its pretty. i don't dogear important pages in books, which seems pretty important right about now. a lot of people remind me of wax. they never alight themselves, just stay posed, just stay safe and cold and cruel.

your summer is now theirs

if I could not feel, then I wouldn't want to live. I can't care if you think I am too intense—the world is too pretty to stay quiet.

I think I would like a boy who spends his days in book stores, or a friend who smiles really big, like a kindness.

I am permanently ingrained in strangeness, dripping book pages, mix tapes, night colours.

and the stars think...

I am a big love, with no apologies. I absorb the world around me, but can never quite emulate it well enough. I can be intense, and I guess I am a little bold like that, a little scared. I believe that everything you are will count for something one day, when chance meets spark meets fate meets tumbling over. I am kind, and uncool, and especially slow.

defenders

I just have to remember my one colour—be kind.

partything

my world is great and alone. it haunts the streets, tasting sidewalks and catching glares, little fires thrown outwards, stars of warning. it pulls its coat up and trips over its ankles, staring into any surface that will stare back. it hungers at the corners, willing the paint from the streetlights, frozen and thawed, a stuttering of ellipsises. and all these great—a book of poisons, clawed madly at the spine of the world. it manages a smile, stolen from the infant with the broken neck, the people falling off their beds. it says hello, all cut up from the tongues of newspapers. it steels elbows against the wall, fumbles at its knees, recites the stains on the floor. it falls through the crowd, a prickled spittle of numbers, gasping for a neck line or a fish bowl, sweating muted apologies. it crashes into the darkest corner of sound, a satellite in the noise, adjusting its eyelids, pushing fingers through eye sockets, creases of hair. it takes a plastic cup, one refined stumble, and pours their world in. it braves a quick take of air, a practiced mumble, and swallows.