I go out into the noir sunrise, feeling the knife’s edge between summer and fall. The pavement leeches my warmth when it can’t find any in the sun. Something has gone cold and we can all feel it, even when we’re sweating. x I hunt for my joy, the kind that sprints at the sight …
Today I am gray— a storm without thunder— which is better than a drowned, faded blue, but I would not press to call it a full color. x I yearn to be something more. A hopeful, blinding azure, a sunlight gold— so warm you can feel it on your skin. Maybe a violet— wealthy with …
There is, of course, no reason to be afraid. There is no asteroid hurtling toward Earth, no supervolcano about to erupt under Yellowstone, and no man in the corner of your room, just out of sight. He isn’t watching you, a bloody gleam in his eyes. He isn’t sharp— with knives and claws and intent. …
When it rains, do you really feel it? Do you feel it rinsing your skin, washing away the blood and sweat? Do you feel it soothing your muscles, releasing the tension? Do you feel it bleach your bones, wiping away your impurities? Do you feel it fill your lungs, your first fresh breath in weeks? …
Author's Note: Song is mostly unrelated, it's just the kind of bitterness that this poem reminds me of. Lincoln - How I Survived Bobby Mackey's Personal Hell Start by finding your passion, what you want to do, and bury it six feet deep. Take a knife and split yourself open, find every soft and honest …
Most ghosts I know are still breathing. I see them in the things I want to tell them, the time we could’ve had. They’re a shadow on my threshold, whispers in my ear. A simple fact of life, but it feels like being hollowed out. They don’t have to die for me to mourn. x …
it's a hard place to live. the briars digging into my skin, the rose-thorns curl like a noose around my neck. rocks fill my lungs, leeches crawl down my throat. there’s belladonna and lead in my blood, rot tearing through my stomach. I’m a moon, I’m a mouse, I’m coal, I’m a diamond. I’m an …
I’ve been thinking about old statues of dogs. Whether they did something great, or just simply were — that isn’t what’s important. We pass by statues and sculptures everyday, but most of us won’t give them more than a thought. Whether they were evil or good. But statues of dogs are different. Over the decades, …
Summer burns within me, with white-hot hatred and gentle love, Hateful for this world and those put in charge, hateful for those who bite into hearts, hateful for how they enjoy the blood running down their chin. Loving those who are there when I reach for them, loving the ones who hold me at night, …
It’s a dark — and quiet — night. The moon waits at the window, lacking the peeking curiosity of the sun. The July wind stirs the blinds, followed by orange street lamps and distant stars. Your head is on my shoulder, hair tickling my nose. You sleep. I listen to the soft stirring of the …
