wound song

too easily I cave! I wound myself, while I try to gather sutures. I won't slip into these tenses.

but before I begin, I tried reading quotes—am I the one that feels nothing? I get more of torment, a violent song. I remain hopeful, but the hopeful quotes instill no rare colour. I was hoping I would not need to write—a good quote could bear the spark, but here I am, pressing myself to a chair as hard as I can.

(I don't like the apologies in the writing, not here.)

so I was not going to break tonight. I had a day that did not start, a quick drug already spent.

(and, see, I'm—still—not—here. I want to show my voice.)

this means nothing tomorrow. so why can't I strike it out. no, I won't ask questions, no, I won't apologise. I am trying to navigate myself around the war tonight. one half of my head holds the crippling poison. it turns bird flight to ash. it turns reflections of light—to pluck away the eyes.

Darkness, I name you. I can keep writing, and you can't stay. you might think you've won again this evening, but I am still noticing, and I still know my palms.

you have been hurt worse than this, and you have remained alone longer than now. you have had so little hope, and so you hold no—I WILL MAKE HAPPINESS. THERE WILL BE SOUND. SUCH FUCKING SOUND. DO YOU THINK YOU COULD STAND LOUDER THAN THIS?

mend: these things do not bring you to end.

and for a moment, the tree branches are spider webs, spun across morning light, cracks in the day, where i can't follow.

at wolves

To the shape of heartache to come, ink blots thick to—pressed to—under the warmth of eye lids. And you cross your kneecaps, and count your sentences, traced to, cracks to cracked lips. Under the hunt, body for sun spots, for wolves blood I can—I can—can wear this blood, to breathing—I'll have you yet.

one day we will be more than neck bones, and our hearts——pull from their frame, i will show my face.

the lightning strike

burial

this is just a mess. I hate that I am ruled by so many things, and wearing bad days like cloaks. but the spark of a song sets it away, and then it—staring at secrets, and counting my skin.

I don't feel bad for mess—simple structure—butterfly wings—chain wire—dog tears.

I have to always adapt to survive the twitch, what spurs hyphens. I eat this pizza, and count higher, play a song for safety.

this will be filed under mess, and that makes it okay. if i say it is to be ugly, then it can't be thought to be thought to be otherwise - the judgment that is learnt. skipping. skipping. skipping. -

and from here i control it all, could go every ways.

i am only one wrong foot in a puddle i didn't need—that far away from—closer, in that.

somedays the reels don't play. the picture is all dead insects, burning their fucking eyes out, writhing. crackling. will they love us in flames?

i would give you answers. i would always give you answers. every answer, if i could understand—the—empire.

hard light.

and suddenly it hits, that weight i seek to put to words - i could explain - but only find the same deficient sting. my brain becomes vulnerable to everything, trying to swallow everything in the room, the hours, the bodies that are not mine. but could i change - i want to provide the map. i don't want just the poison. i don't want just the confusion (i can't feel the right paragraphing that would help. five lines, and that clean space? freeing or damning?) i have to communicate in means that are relevant to me...i have to make a mess but my brain will not allow! i want to. i can escape the hard light... or, i am. i am the light, and that's hard.

(autumn, falling down and i didn't feel my teeth every day) i - and i won't include Try - i am one good thing. i want to be one good thing. i don't care how terrible things can be. i want to be good and bright and hope.

(staring into the plate, so big, such a mess) the problem is i am not stable. but then - the fire light! i blaze true and rasp without. sleep will rekindle.

(at the brink i find my futures) it leaves me so tired, sometimes. dizzying to look away, everything wrong, jarring.

(these people are) unfinished. madness. searing direction.

(a tree once stood there, infested, and its distance... even the tree's ghosts sleep, even she has grown.)

you patch up the world and wound yourself.

always—you

"With so much love for the world, that always you are—always you will—always you know, the calamity of sound."

Ian William L.

keep the car running

a looking

On the morning train to work, and it is really pretty skies again, all purple and bruised lips and sleepy, or grey like rain, and Yellowcard is playing:

"All I can think about is you and me driving with a Saves The Day record on."

Just remembering, that this is not a moment for looking forward, but looking around. Noticing the guy with his knees pressed together, tripping over himself. The pretty girl somewhere between her hair, her headphones. The old angry man of stature, but with stories creased to his cheeks, imagining that one smile would be so hearty.

The story sits alongside you, the world gleaning your smile.