The algorithm of my being dictates a gravel-fill heart,
the bitterness of lime pith.
Sipping raspberry lemonade, tasting non-existant lips.
"What if it never gets better?", they asked.
(today is a very bittersweet and lonely day for me. a year ago, my ex and i started dating - safe to say, he's been a huge impact on my life since then. i can't forgive him, i can't forget what he did. we had this great big love affair, and it was the first time i truly felt real, genuine love. it didn't work out, but somewhere in the middle, we tried. we tried so fucking hard.
because the truth is, i hate the way i am, too. but he gave up on me.
so i'm sailing the high seas alone.)
answer all or any, i am curious :
do you dream? what was your last dream?
if taking your own life meant that 10 people would be cured of terminal disease, would you do it?
who are you?
who did you last love, and why?
what was your first love like?
what is your loveliest memory?
have you ever seen a ghost? would you like to?
what do you believe in?
how much of your life (dreams, aspirations, day-to-day activities) was pre-decided for you by your culture?
how much of your life is authentically yours?
why are some things evil?
How I long to say :
"This skin is not my own."
Meanwhile, I lie here,
dissolving in my indoors.
("i'm sorry because i was too young
to know what to do
with the way i was ready to love.")
I was a tied-up faunlet,
His kisses reeking of nightshade and nothings.
"I am not good at this," he shook,
"Don't worry," I said, "I've been here before."
having a meal, waiting for my date to finish school
the plan for tonight is a shy boy, liquor, and (possibly) a kiss.
Coughing up lunar bile in a field of flowers, turned to cancer. This garden-boy has grown up into weeds.
"Don't be sad", they said.
"Thank you," I replied, "I am cured."
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
the most severe of tranquilities
and such unrest.
i am ill and somehow, lovelier
as though i have traded my blood for rose-water,
bleeding strawberry milk.
i may name it 'angel syndrome',
but it is merely adulation of suffering.
keep stealing your mama's cigarettes
drinking bootleg liquor
crying yourself to sleep
i am too weary to arrange the flowers,
a quiet boy,
an unmade bed,
and all the tragedy this implies.
some secrets exist only at night-time,
in anaesthetic dreams :
so carefully hidden once morning comes.
(I have started a collection of photos of flowers, entitled 'sad flowers'. There is no purpose to it. Click to see.)
i'll find a scientist to help me
bottle these worlds,
send them off to sea.
it's strange how really, i never know anyone.
everytime they come, they go, too - and i'm filled with such longing,
you'll never come home, no
and i'll never let you in, either.
i have this life and
if i could have it
i would have chosen
from the beginning.
(i hate gay clubs so much... why are you under the impression that because i dance with you for 5 seconds it's okay to suddenly grab my dick?)
il y a, dans nos regards
tendresse et circonspection mêlées.
je l'aimais sombre, je l'aimais clair,
mais jamais je ne pourrai pardonner
cet amour de violence douce.