so many anythings,
so much unsaid, and i feel ill
Sick because the world is too big and my heart too small, the machine too powerful and the flowers too frail, his eyes too wide and my mind too childish. "When did the world become so big?", I wondered.
The waves keep crashing. Over and over. Buried in cold water, tossing in the current. Why doesn't the camomille keep me from shaking? Where is my blanket? Who medicates me, now? I reach for you on the shelf but you are no longer there.
i'll be your rotten apple,
i'll be your bad milk.
goodbye baby flowers and tiny grass.
too unreal and far too real.
i want only the venoms.
i want only the mythology of flesh.
Oops, I am inside-out,
still dreaming to
the sound of you.
I saw all these people walking around in their bodies, playing with things, being angry, walking around, doing people things. I wonder if they see me in mine, or if I am too dragged into dream to really exist the way others do.
Nugatory boys and damnatory loves,
amatory lies and horror stories.
I mumble : "Why did you have to care?"
But I receive no reply.
I want to hold the hand inside you.
They said :
"you are exceptional, mysterious, kind,"
but I hadn't ever wanted to be a mystery or anything,
I just wanted to be okay.
350mg in a girlish heart ; ill, injured and undone, yet lovelier than ever.
"Have you been in love before?", he asks, pulling closer.
"I don't know," I hesitated, "I think I fall in love all the time, every single day, but I don't think I know how to love anything. Love is complicated, like folding a fitted sheet. Perhaps I am only perpetually infatuated."
I hate being lonely without someone
I don't want to want anything or anyone
I don't want to be lonely,
Yet I miss your skin, your warmth and
riding their bicycles, breaking backyard fences.
drinking stolen beer from the corner store.
writing obscenities in bathroom stalls.
Honeycomb sweetness dripping from bee-stung lips ; the sensuality of your proximity ; your finger in my mouth ; cider-built rêveries.
Your oneness, all-encompassing
My self, imaginary.
sew my body to the night-time,
lacerations and smoke coiling the open wounds.
but i am unwell and
pill-time makes me beautiful.