Swallowing or Not,WRITE IT WRITE IT WRITE IT because if you can write it, it means something's there-- it means the emptiness isn't emptiness, it's something you just haven't named yet, yeah, that's it, it just doesn't have a name, you've got something beyond language, this disease, it's beyond language, this disease.I WANTED TO swallow the pain. UNTIL I REALIZED that swallowing keeps the stuff inside. Swallowing the pain brings it closer to your heart. Why didn't I want to vomit pain.WHEN THERE ARE people drowned in potential it's hard to see those people for what they really are. WHEN THERE ARE PEOPLE drowned in what they really are, it's hard to see their potential. I got my jaw stuck, biting too hard into the What Is. When you bite too hard, you stop being able to taste anything.I have no idea how to touch you. I like to think my body would snap to attention, at your attention. I LIKE TO THINK MY BODY would know how to coax your nerves from human to hero, I'D LIKE TO THINK your atoms have w
Our BonesNobody wants to talk about how grief has got a floor.And that once you reach grief’s floor,you have to start to dig.With a shovel that no longer belongs to you.I’ve always been partial to the dark and cold—it’s oddlywarm.But when you left,you tore up the turf so thoroughlythe black air seeped inand I no longer needed to digfor the earth's paralysis.--You taught meso much harm can be donewith a fistful of emptiness.An open hand is powerless.I meant to kiss your palms.I think of you often;that first inhaletaking the drug of her neckand I have to admit Ialways envied your thoughtlessness.---What happens when you diefeeling like there's always been something buried?Disintegration feels redundant,or perhaps just a long time coming.You asked me my last wish--to find our bones again.
DrunkQuickWriteInstallmentAMillionNobody ever says,when I grow up,I wanna be a silence weaver.I want to embed silence intoevery piece of my liver,so I can process poison quietly.Because there's no glamorin suffering soundlessly.-I've learned so many bodies like magnetsbodies like heat and softnessbut I'm afraid to know the bodythat will demand deliberate interactionI'm terrified of bringing touch to you,my intangible,you feel like the last idea,the end of the storybook,the meat of the storybook,I can't imagine you as realas her weight shifts uncomfortably in my bedshe knows I'm still awakedoes she know I'm thinking of you?Could it matter?Does it, now?-When you're familiar with the art of closing spaces,when you've grown flowers from the bedrock and the soot,how do you explain the hollow in the kiss?How do you justify the clanging of souls?I always meant to mendI always meant toharmonizeI alwaysmeanttoWhat do you call what's happening now?Is it better, because it belongs to flesh, and
what it's likeIt's like you're...caressing my skin with razorblades,My...skin opens up to youLike flower petals dofor the sun...Like an athleteMy blood runsAnd I fear, like blood does,My heart will harden when its all said and done.