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.)