she holds the knife, that screams at him, there's music playing somewhere.

it was the strangest thing, her song in my ears, one smile at me struck, right between the eyes, and in her dress, and in her dreams, i guess i wanted it all, pressed the compass to her bones, lost beneath her skin, removed her voice from a box, dug up from the years, tried to cut out all the adjectives, ...

if you never raise your sword, they'll cut you down with their teeth, propped up on their tongues, dropped the, cut to the quick, on waiting toes, their words at your throat, lost the hate you'd hoarded, staring at walls, aortas gathering up smoke.

X.

how easy it is, to say you will raise your voice, and never make a sound. it's always... i'm slipping through; i never like the idea of people looking, and the idea of bothering them with my words, is even worse? and i don't why this would be. we're all scared the same.

what are we afraid of? the velocity of their silence? the quickening of their eyes, sockets, judgment. it is hard not to feel trapped in that: you may only submit your noise, to the forest...

i feel great, i feel a little worse.

but we always raise up, when we're worse.

you met me with sleep in my eyes / you were always going to make me tired / sad secrets spark between us / writing lightning to breathe beneath the sheets.

your fingertips, where my floor once held.