seed/nothing

I will be your bravest seed.

And it is all true: if i took one thing, chopped it up, chopped it out, what could I be? Could I write these things? Could I help them see? Would the sunsets destroy me? Would you be a ghost? Would you be mine?

It all just is, even when you are staring at the wall.

the world owes you no kindness, just the violence of its colour.

"in every speck of dust, in every universe, when you feel most alone, you will not be alone."

1, 2, 3, 4

explodist

It gets faster and faster, the thoughts and the heat. It is always the same—always going to be the same. I stare at them, and they don't stare back. I am kind with broken limbs, ingest the little scrap, and still remain. How the fuck are we expected to maintain to the fucking rules of this fucking world, when we are not them? And I cannot. I can't do job hunting. I can't escape patterns. I can't be very alone.

And it is never enough to give in, because this brain has to be bent enough to fight—resist—survive. I should celebrate cheap, little survival.

Maybe you are not looking in the right places. Maybe you should stop looking.

But then the right song plays, and I can come back: the only living boy in new york, by simon and garfunkel.

press record

So this is not sharing. This is a journal scrap. I have to record something, just so that I exist, or I stare on forever. But I keep my elbows close, and I can hear another fight brewing. And I see you sometimes, but I don't say hello.

I am trying to get Adam to play on my computer, because I really would like to watch it, but it never does. then I stare at pages from The Perks Of Being A Wallflower, press my face into the paper.

I should have gone to gym today. I should have, but I didn't. And so nothing anchors me—just this hatred, this scrap loneliness.

all of this love becomes violence.

venom

I hold so so much hate, that I want to undo your existence, all the little things you do, to cover up miseries. And I want to pluck them, reveal your shriveled corpse, and not bravery. I know it is wrong, but this is my venom.

he sits in the room, tiles and broken things, warm light, sweat in his hair. but he rises, he pulls his sleeves, tightly over knuckles, silently with his teeth. his thoughts are hazy, just his feet pressed against the floor, the warmth in that chill, he can almost see the beach. there are two couches, they just stay, they could be on fire. and he walks a circle around them, just to feel his feet, just to see the room. and he jars his neck and it does not change.

when i go quiet, i get scared of making the first new sound.

but i need to, i need to. i need to make the change. i want to make something so fucking brilliant for you.

‎if you can share one thing, incite one smile, it's worth being the outcast.

asound

when your whole world goes quiet, I will be fumbling with a sound. if you press your heart to the wall, you won't remember how to feel alone. because I have swam in that basement, and I have been killed by the stars, my heart counted by the clock, but I won't stop this time.

though recall the days, you waited here in hell, the sunlight streaming through, that held the scraps of hands, my world trying to find you, to swallow the dial tone or black lines, holding bones to your ears, the rust keeps you quiet, whispering into the closed hands of clocks, the world trying to keep you.

tiny

hide the names and count the dots, the warmth that makes the world go quiet, so sink your elbows into this.

spook from photograph

I wish you would put the camera down, make an ugly mess of me, and keep us with your eyes.

both the moon

when I am calm, I think I will be the moon

I will watch you, his light shining through

when I'm gone, I think I will be the ghost

watching you, leave what i'm bound to.

point of us

Should I love you? Should I hold you down? Should I stick the needle of our record through your eye?

can't always be the champion hurting, sometimes just the witch they're burning.

tore a hole in the calendar starting today
only absent from your blood not the fear.

1147

I am stranded in the darkness, rot strung along my fingertips, tasting bones—stab the light right through me, keep me, but I am lost, I am lost.

I don't know, and maybe you can only save the others, and sometimes you do it to save yourself, and you never will. and maybe I didn't jump in to save you, but just to drown.

don't leave me alone with this night. don't leave me alone.

at some point, you will have to face reality, the world. you will have to hang yourself on another tie, tear open their stomachs, and, smile

you are the same—you are alone—you are not getting better—you are not getting any closer.

the song in your throat, is just a creeping death, the coldest of heat, that records your misery, birds in your eyes, a monument for the corners of eyes.

but you try to keep a consistency, the last defense, the space between, the river of white, the punctuated wounds, the end.

(why don't you protect me?)

I can't even—I can't even—I can't even break into the tense. I can't make it through. I can't make it in. I can't be present.

I am absent from my blood, lost on a string

I want to talk like you, I want to wear those bones.

(breathe accurately.)

my face stretches out to fill my palms. my teeth ache to count the minutes. my throat burns with memories. my elbows will hunt you down. my knees thrash. my dreams swallow the light bulbs. my head just hurts. my heart will tear you apart.

can't, see? have to separate this, try to make it better, to die in. i can't break the rules of misery. the chemicals win, the chemicals win. need help, need safety, need to stop.

you turn me round, and move through beds, trying to find the cold side of my grace, i hang you out, the noose drawn through my face, to end this trial, blindfolded, or faith.

so pretty you ask to see my blood.

shot through black

sometimes even the sunlight cannot save me, and the way out is still hidden. something creeps into my skin, and it looks out, and wants to destroy, everything that defies it. sometimes even the shower cannot wash it away. sometimes even you bend before it, crooked and weak and unknowing. that the heart of all beauty is seething violence. it cannot be dug out, sung out, known out. it is small and it is black, and it waits. and it destroys.

weapons for war.