when dusk falls
parts of you light up,
the parts that are scarred
by the passing of time
barely visible nicks
that serve as tiny reminders
of your fragility
.
dark things lurk
under small imprints upon your skin
hidden demons we fight alone
but you are strong
and night always precedes day
.
you needed stitches more times than you can remember
(you were a reckless child)
those scars still remind me of spider webs woven
with thin needles
of silver slivers of moon
dripping mercury
a slow and heavy poison
.
i dreamt that each of your bones was carefully extracted
and replaced with a replica
made of steel
and under your skin
lay precious metals
and your muscles were lined with flecks of gold,
little diamonds
were placed between your teeth
for safekeeping
.
when i awoke
your scars were lit up by the
fragmented moon
her pale face
her unrelenting silence
.
she weeps for you

There is a vessel with your name on it

Antiquated silver letters hidden

Within the walls of cream colored caverns

Words that cannot be read aloud

For fear of waking the lovebirds nesting in your ribcage

.

The names of your lovers are carved

Into stone

Alongside country roads where flora once flourished

Now the ground trembles with the weight of your honey-sweet tears

.

I have heard that the vast ocean

Swallows secrets whole

And on nights when the air is thick with fog

One can hear muddled whispers from the seashore

Like ancient artifacts riddled with indecipherable codes

Or bone fragments belonging to species long gone

.

I was told that the most beautiful trees bear the bitterest fruits

And that vibrancy

Is not a substitute for character

Still, we are fragile as the tired glass figurines in my music box

And a penchant for prayer cannot go unpunished

.

Can you see the way the spirits wander through private gardens?

Picking posies as they pass

Leaving alleyways

Littered with petals

And smelling of overripe stone fruits

.

It is in these places that I choose to rest my head

Tired of listening to the moths lamentation

And craving those faint lullabies from the heavens

.

There is no vessel for me

But please remember the places I held in my heart

When you hear the lovebirds

At dawn

.

That is when I walk through your garden

And the earth is still

And the posies are growing in the flowerbeds

Where I once slept

some days i will sit in the square and look out on the crowd

and everyone looks empty

the children are grey, their parents almost invisible

what happened?

.

i watch the young mothers

so cold and so precise

every movement calculated

every inhale sharp

even the sun would scowl if it could

.

these are the days preceded by restless nights

when i lie down on that yellowed sheet

sweat for seven hours

then rise, as if i have somewhere to be

.

.

it’s always too warm

at midday

at twilight

my palms are clammy, my hairline drenched

and there is a knot in my stomach the size of a football

or the size of the moon

or bigger than everything, i don’t know anymore

.

.

some days i watch the businessmen downtown, smoking cigars and telling jokes without punch lines

and at the end of every joke

one of them tries to turn the corners of his mouth upwards

and as i silently observe this ridiculous show

i want to laugh

if only it weren’t so grotesque

.

.

i laugh anyway

.

.

i love seeing the twenty-somethings walk in and out of coffee shops

they go in looking tired

and they come out looking tired and three dollars poorer

.

.

it seems to me that as you grow older

you do something like melt

very slowly, of course

but your bones shorten millimeter by millimeter

you lose small parts of yourself

in the shops you frequent

every time you feel pity

or when you become over-eager to receive gifts

.

it’s these daily hurdles that are sucking you dry

your love of material possessions

and your propensity to kill things smaller than yourself

.

on those rare nights when i sleep long enough to dream

i see myself in the park

digging my nails into the dirt

looking at the bugs in awe

.

they are so colorful

and every single one is opaque

they don’t seem to fade

.

i am quickly filled with rage

and i slam my fist into the ground, trying to hurt the things that have yet to hurt me

i am throwing punches at the dirt, my breathing grows heavy, and a crowd starts to gather

.

when i wake up

i am filthy

my bedroom looks like a forest

and i do not feel so alone

The intricacies of your tendons as they travel between knuckles

or those fingertips draped in lace

each follicle of your hair or impurity

in the first seven layers of your skin

. 

I dream of white blood cells

.

spring takes center stage early this year

Chicago wakes prematurely, impatient but unprepared

the flora mimics the fauna

and anticipation permeates the thin membrane surrounding the city

.

I hope those seven layers are the only thing keeping me intact

.

your lips fold at the creases

your shoulders sink, slow as syrup

I trace the curvature of your spine

pausing with each vertebra

captivated by every new dimple

.

.

But the subtle spring paves the way for the saccharine summer

My bruised ribs need to heal,

My delicate chest rubbed red and raw, will, with time, reanimate

.

.

Wait for the cloud cover to dissipate

Wait for the waxing moon

The cautious crescent

will rise some night and

fall another

.

a wavering conscience will steady with time

and wandering thoughts will settle

.

the whites of your eyes

the white of your bones

your fragile blue veins

your fleshy pink cheeks

(by polyesteriot)

(Source: clishmaclavians, via helicine)

I am finding it hard

To come to terms

With the fact that I am not eye-catching

And it’s even harder

To realize

That I never was

I am being ripped open at the seams

all hell spills out of my chest, nearly flooding the room in anguish

This is what a violent protest looks like.

against you, and the government, and metal and corruption

against pain and fear, and fear.

maybe it is selfish

But the only thought left in my head

is “Who will stitch me up?”

There will be scars

But scars can be forged

I am alone

This is what a violent protest looks like.

And I bruise like a peach

And my soft, fleshy thighs look healthier with a little color in them

(what a piece of work! what art!)

a little black or blue, a little red

I am reaching out

but I don’t think all the gauze in the city could cover this wound

We could try

I am a violent protest.

I am combatting the wars you wage

against my heroines

my bloodstream

and all seven trillion nerves

But especially against the folds that hide in the mirror

and the fact that you might never know

You might think this is incomplete

But I fear the original ending would disappoint

it’s terribly sad

as life is poured into the moon each night

and drained every morning

and the flowers grow

too far apart to really thrive

it’s 3am and i want to scrub my skin right off. i hate it. it’s unclean. it’s a reminder of my lack of autonomy and i just can’t stand it anymore. so i sit in the bath tub with the scrub brush and scrub until i’m red and raw and i still feel dirty. i still feel like me. i hate this feeling.

it’s 3am and i’m reminded of my lack of autonomy, my lack of motivation. i’m reminded that as much as i want to be putting my “best effort” into everything i do, i just don’t fucking care. i thought i did, i thought i was ready, but i’m not. i’m the same misanthrope i’ve always been, i’m just more cognizant of what’s going on around me. and i can play the game like the best of them, but i don’t see the point anymore.

it’s 3am and as much as i want to do my readings for class tomorrow i think i’d rather wallow. and then i’d rather dream. and then i’ll plan things out, things i probably won’t get around to. like those silly thoughts i have at parties that i’ll go home and do work and be productive. i can’t even remember what productive means.

it’s 3am and i’m questioning free will. but then the wave of apathy comes over me and i’m flustered and confused by who i am and who i appear to be. i think about chain-smoking and then i think about cancer and i decide that i’m not a huge fan of life or living, but i’m pretty sure i don’t want to die just yet.

it’s 8am and i’m putting on makeup, i’m getting dressed and looking good under false pretenses. but i’ve kept it up so long, how could i quit now?

it’s 2pm and i’m at the supermarket, thinking about buying everything in sight. i’ve left my apathy at the door. instead i feel the rush of capitalism, of consumerism, a longing for everything and the means to achieve my goals. (goals! hah!)

it’s 5pm and i’m stuck in traffic, having a recurring thought. am i dead? really. did i die years ago and is this heaven? or hell? or purgatory? or do i have to believe in these things to be stuck in them? and i come to the conclusion that life and death are probably the same, and my apathy will continue to exist regardless of whether or not there is an afterlife.

and it’s midnight and i don’t know what i’m doing awake, and i don’t know what i’m doing alive, but sometimes i am happy. sometimes there is joy amidst the (seemingly) never-ending pain and disinterest and frustration and sorrow. there is love, every once in a while. and sometimes i care. perhaps to be alive really isn’t so bad. but maybe i’ll dipute this when i wake up.

probably.

it’s 10am. what am i doing?

(Source: helicine)

You are heavy. In all your glory, you are still so heavy.

And as I am being ripped open I reflect on those scenes which I wrote the script for

And those which had no script

And the days we wasted

And what “wasted” means

I remember restless nights

(Am I remembering or imagining? Is there a difference?)

I allude to moments when I thought my heart would travel up my throat and out my mouth and fall into the looming darkness

But I will never speak of these moments directly

After all, someone has to keep you guessing.

Because I am still so surprised at the power we give to anything and everything

Words

And silence

Waking life

And dreams all the same

And I find myself questioning, once more, does it really “mean” anything?

Is persisting in and of itself a privilege too costly to request?

To beg?

I had a garden once, but I’ve lost it

And I’ve yet to look back:

Too much work for so little pleasure,

Or pain

I will love you only if it will cost me

I can no longer afford anything for free – I demand consequences, returns

You are heavy but I will lift you as long as I am able

I keep my promises

Because all that we are is a series of words and silences

Scripts to follow or abandon

A priceless touch, or a garden which meant nothing but was “all the rage”

We are nothing, and everything,

And nothing once again

And I will carry you as long as I am able

As long as I am willing

As long as I care

And also for eternity

When do I start?