if you want to stop hurting:i. i have swallowed down this 3am lovelike the ibuprofen i fed myself for myswollen ankle that time in spainwhen i pushed a little too hard andlet go for a little too long.i have swallowed you down so manytimes before, kept you like little embersin the crevices of my chest, burningholes through tissue and bone andeverything that i am - through everythingthat i swore i wasn't.ii. a few months ago,i learnt that it's easier to breathewith your throat open, to take itdown and let go gracefully,like opening your palms againstthe wind outside the car and inhalingthrough your nose.iii. if you want to stop hurting:listen to them speak but do not hear their words, hear only their voice,feel it reverberate against your spine and tell yourself -this isn't a bad thing.rebuild your body like jenga blocks. if somebody comes close,hold their hand and tell them -i trust you.let the air rush between your fingers,let the fire in your arteries sizzle aw
Shackles Falling (008)When the dandelions spread--a yellow diseaseacross the brown lawn--and thick ivy arms creptdown halls layered with dust,we knew it was time to go.We watched,a pair of memoriesfate wanted lost--the echoes of ghostslong departed--as the city cheeredthe building to brick dustand empty foundations.The start of a new month,the shackles of your eyeswere open--portals to a future without fur.As the sun danced acrobaticsacross the backs of our fading hands,you--a grin free of fangs,a boy once again--plucked me one more weedto wear in the clean braidof my hairas we skipped out on the moon.
flyover state, flyover heartthere's almost nothingleft of august, or me -just fat, humid yawns thatcling to the asphalt andvinyl sidings of housesprettier than any autumn day.chlorined kids rise from thetanned wake of public pools,clothed in school uniforms,counting the new frecklesthey've earned like war badges.the nights i can lay in myunderwear beneath spider webblankets while my wheezy fanoscillates and whispers dustystories are numbered.but i'll hold the moonas it crests over summer'sdying vigil, my arms higharound it's wondrous girth.i'll ride the heat into theashes of three months spentdreaming in fevered euphoria.i'll lead the impassionedthousands down margins tuckedinto a waning, wailing cry.and i won't rest, even afteraugust is buried between bluelined composition pages in acoffin of lead - a memory with noscent becoming one without a heartbeat.