they are better than lists and likes

don't you just want to be surrounded by people, who smile at you with their sentences, even though you are shy, and even though you've just met?—and they say stupid things and fall down—and the night is measured in plastic cups and buttons on coats—and you are weird and you are warm, and everything shivers for a home—don't you just want that?—I really, really do.

and the stars think...

I am a big love, with no apologies. I absorb the world around me, but can never quite emulate it well enough. I can be intense, and I guess I am a little bold like that, a little scared. I believe that everything you are will count for something one day, when chance meets spark meets fate meets tumbling over. I am kind, and uncool, and especially slow.

hope is the thing

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.

Emily Dickinson

press buttons, presser

kind of give up on the fucking world but do not. keep listening to los campesinos! keep reading books about things that are little, and great. stare at ceilings, and go to gym. write about people who are not aliens. cuss in unison, and play mind games until.

defenders

I just have to remember my one colour—be kind.

box of teeth

my head is a mess, staring into glasses of milk, more plastic than—and fingers clenching, and throwing my headphones at the fucking wall. I just pull my sleeves up a little more and try to let go. i really feel like a song, a person, something I really shouldn't go into.

but, I did not write: record this infinite night.

it was, it sparked up, and now has it come to—returned to napalm, writhing, a box of teeth, all fucking menaces.

I no longer hold the sentences to explain, that I wholeheartedly fucking abhor the way people function. I am meant to be the one that is odd, and strange, and creating the wrong and awkward patterns. but I care, and I build invisible kingdoms, from shitty fucking light bulbs and glancing moments. it is everyone else who does not. it's just—bite down, more, more. it's just: I had a good fucking night. it was warm, and we were both aliens. but, it is always the same. when I am not escaping orbit, I try to crawl closer, but it's all just distance.

you—just—return—to—them.

like I am stuck out here on the opposite side of the mirror, licking stamps and wounds.

I can't focus. I'm trying to stay quiet, trying to listen to them, trying to keep the hope there, for a spark, but it won't.

I should give up.

(but I can't.)

I should fucking—

neutral swells.

he scratched at his head, his hair, cracked like bathroom tiles, he could taste them. and all the walls, the blue paint, the low light, all coming down like paper, lines and lines.

the new scraps.

you breathe little anchors into the world, you fuck with my oceans, you smile under the moth light, you crease with your dreams.

tin man of.

other people could see a sunset, hear a song, feel it all moving through them. it came as a smile, or a colour, or the curling of toes, prickling, cannonball. he did not. he only felt texture, lying in bed, pressing the backs of fingernails deep into the pillow, biting his teeth.

wound.

a door opening is a jet plane crashing into the house.