i think we’re the same person just raveled in different skin and you’re full of this inconsistency like when you look to the floor after kissing me, but it mimics my stance after you grab my legs and pull me towards you.
i’ve been making the speech in my head for four goddamn days now: i will push you away to get under your skin until you love me and love me and love me- until you want nothing but me because i want all of you, like the aftermath of a flood and the devastation that reflected in your eyes when i averted my attention away from you. you play it over again in your mind because you fell in love with the comfort of sadness.
all the cracks and scars that you try to shrug off as bad karma. i’ve invented words describing beauty that explain all your freckles but you can’t even look into the mirror without getting sick you tell me i’m neurotic as hell but you can’t get my taste out of your mouth or my smell out of your head and you’re so happy that you found someone who’s just as crazy as you are.
we whisper things to each other like- “those people, they don’t mean shit” and “i know you’ve already given most of yourself today but i find myself begging to get my share.”
you speak to me as we lay in bed together with something close to panic: there’s this gap between my hands and i can’t pick anything up. nothing will fill it, it leaves me empty and soggy and my damn glass keeps on spilling but there’s no one there to clean it up.
she is every deadly sin veiled in one she hides in the darkest corner of night where love and desire intersect her mysteries slip in and out of your pure thoughts, leaving her scent of sin her fingerprints ignite tiny explosions against your skin and her unrepenting kisses keep you in her perpetual hell you can’t help but fall in love with her
There are no echoes in the white-dark of a snow storm. It’s as if sound itself has frozen. But even without the echoes, there is this sound of blood. Rushing and beating. Methodically beating. Thump. Thump. Thump. Poe’s Tell Tale has nothing on this rhythm.
More times than we made love, you said that you loved me, were in love with me. Which puts that number in the thousands, at least. But love, true love, is eternal. ETERNAL. A stone is a stone, was a stone, WILL ALWAYS BE A STONE. So it is with love. So when you say that you don’t love me anymore, Because I turned my cloak to you, because I walked away. When you say you cannot love me because I hurt you, you are really saying. “I never loved you.” There is no WAS. There is no THEN. A STONE IS A STONE WAS A STONE, WILL ALWAYS BE A STONE. Love is love was love will always be love, Failing that, it is but an infant’s fancy. So I don’t believe you for a second, I was always the colder of us, How might you expect me to believe the flame of your love would burn its wick to the quick, before mine? What kind of Liar are you? Which kind?
I live in the black
The darkness inside brown eyes that relish time
I have a filthy fucking mind
I will not apologize for my demeanour
or the fact that I’m wild and don’t value your morals
or your goals.
I live in a place that no one frequents but everyone frequents at every moment of the day
My mind absorbs every flicker of light in the eyes of an opponent looking to spread me out like butter on toast
You may be able to handle the spike in temperature when my mouth is closed;
but don’t let my finger land on your button
You won’t feel the same - and I’ll be running in the other direction faster than the dreams of a future you had with some dull lifeless pile of skin and white table cloths.
I don’t confine myself to the rules you have bestowed upon yourself to control your habits, your mind.
I don’t confine myself to the rules that you define yourself by to deal with your lack of backbone and drive.
I can be predator -
and in my eyes you are prey
accepting of the fact that you will soon die and be born again into unbridled pool of lust and regret that you didn’t live sooner
that you didn’t experience this before some black girl showed you a trick with her mouth and ice
Cold like july when you’re dumped by life
and left on the doorstep of sadness and despair.
I am the darkness breathing adventure into your boredom
that dull dreary life where you only do what you are told to.
What a pity.
I live in the black
deep dark depth into clarity
inky well of time within myself
time to reflect on what I will do next
who it’ll be next
what stranger i’ll share my heat and fire with
and where i will move to.
This is what it looks like from the inside.
Look out from the corner shop picture window,
see it backwards. Watch it sit there, glowing,
spilling onto the street, welcoming strangers inside in that moment before
the bulb burns out.
This is how it feels under a hundred pounds of
drums. An avalanche of beating hearts. Touch
your chest and feel its warmth. And this is how
it feels to jump through glass houses. Pull shards
out from your teeth, give them away like virginity
This is what it tastes like on your pink tongue,
salivating and tart. Chew on the lean cut of it.
Swallow it like expired milk, or the morning light,
or a hornet’s nest.
This is what it smells like just before the harvest.
The petrichor in autumn. Its wet, ripe flavor
wafting into the air like a chocolate factory going
out of business, giving out free samples.
This is how it sounds in a downpour. How it sounds
in a whisper mistaken for a rainstick. How it crunches
soft in your ears like white noise or how it cackles
loud like a chalkboard screech.
This is how it falls asleep in the bathtub,
forgetting to scrub itself. This is how it inhales
like a newborn opening its eyes. This is the fabricated rain, the sharp heartbeat, the weight of glass. This is how it exhales brightest, in that
moment before the fire burns out.
Hatred doth ring, from silent moans, When speech does lack from feeble bones. From clouded flesh comes lucid tones, A diaphanous corpse, upped as alms. A soul accepted by death himself, A toll unrequited, to fuel his wealth. As the last breath is freed, Towards morbid health: Forgive the angelic, forgive yourself.