all our words, all our hearts

"I wish we could gather up all our words, and keep them safe, somewhere. A decade in letters, tightly bound, and carried close to my heart always, not just in my mind. But sometimes, just the thought is enough." 

Chelsea Lynn Kirtley

it burns through me, that you do not know, and i have more, and you are more

everything that does not belong to this world moves as a beautiful, fucking marvel.

recovery

I have been sick, and crippled for six days now. today is the first day where perhaps I can feel my throat has not become a grave, and my house slowly grows a door—beautiful fucking sunlight. there were fever words, and tremble songs. I am always so embarrassed for anything I write, that it carves a journal where I want a story, something to give. I know this will never leave me, and it is a toll I am always wrestling to keep. still, I write everything, horrific night wounds, glory of the days when we are not alone. I still only do this for those who need to scour the mark—the end of seasons, and steam engine, and skull tangles.

or, my sister—my venom bloats me, to carry her through. my light surges to keep to hers. my hope breathes a sky for her smile, to see all from above. we are both made from the same broken angle. I know her wrath to hang upon, the world to give her that much sadness. I visibly am undone at such—

your happiness was always going to be worth these lungs filled with hurting truth, taking away twenty breaths of this night, its kind strike.

with you, gwen

you take the street with you now

all those years

a life spilling into ours

your kindness with arcing wonder

and infinite grace

bomb

You are walking through the streets, not sure where you are, or, I am walking through the streets. I am walking through the streets. I am walking through the streets, and I don't know where I am, what this is. But this is the dream where I am ticking. This is the dream where I kill my mother.

I don't know my age. I don't know how I've come to tick, tick, a lack of face to remember. I do know these streets are not real, fifteen years later. (I wanted to say more on that, but I don't like using ages. It halts.) I am walking through the streets, ticking, ticking, ticking. I find my mother and I can not look away.

names go to smoke

I think you need to settle. turning all of your sadness into rage: it's no way to be. stop, be fucking crushed, and work from there.

I will be your bad teeth

everything is amazing, even if it's just in this small room, and this hot mug.

and there should not be a limit on the amount of times you can say that.

I can't focus again, but believe me, I am happy. I am keeping my feet pressed firmly together, fighting the cold wash of the tiles, watching coffee mugs and spilled papers, dry knuckles and smiles that they do not know i am making.

when my dad talks calmly to me, it fills me with so much hope for myself, that he did believe in me all along. I know it is easy to say these horrible things, but sometimes, it's true. my greatest fear is not being good enough for him, the always fear, for all of us.

but what are we doing here? we are just slow and secret, and we're finding it is real.

I am overwhelmed with the chance and possibility, that we're going to keep each other, safe and warm and believing.

everything is going to be alright, be strong, believe.