Wear pink,
yellow, lilac bright colors. Dark? People might think you have mental issues. You look at the ground when you walk. Stop that. Look straight. Neck tight. Posture. And smile. i need to stop eating my fortune cookies, they’re all coming true: a cautionary letter to my younger self I.
your parents are great indicators that nothing ever ends up perfect. they’ll read you countless stories of princesses and happily ever afters, but there’s always that bad taste in your mouth. we’re staying together for the kids but your dad is still sleeping on the couch outside your bedroom. his snores still crawl under your door like snails through thick moss. their second split will stick with you like syrup under your sleeve. you will have separation issues for the rest of your life. These boys, they try to play the rules,
pulling strings of toy wind ups. Try to forget. These boys, they try to dance like the men, try to push out their chests. Try to forget. Our turbulent tunnel vision contains nothing but
desolate desires. A threshold of insecurities compounded into one colossal culmination. Black heart entropy erodes even infinitesimal galaxies yet the chorus of a thousand skulls is not enough to turn our intemperate eyes from tonic-clonic illusions. Leaking, pulseless wither-men
forecast stormfront microcells. Cyanide flash flood, not a dam in sight. Eviscerated leather; seeping blood, leaves a trail down the highway: skylight hemorrhage. < :// Finally left home. To perceive the ringed giant.
< My family watches through a single eye. < One last look at home. Into the infinity. < Clockwise a barren giantess of love. But not ringed. < Hover over the pale cyclops. A mass of gas, striped in storms, yet no rings. < Nothing. Nothing from family. The giants are distant. Alone, but drifting. < Calls from family are a whimper; radio frequency, but nothing more. < Until a yellow giant, surrounded by auroric clumps, floats the infinite. Retrograde motion takes over. As you flick your wicked words
and fling your curses more than just feelings are hurt when blood starts to burn insults tear at the skin of the mind the perfect one can pierce what’s hidden behind Fourth of July all over her eyes,
fierce and violently free. Luminous blue at staggering depths, my modern Magellanic dream. Explosions of light behind her smile, elegant sincerity from pillowside whispers. Like shards of glass, the laceration of her gaze tears apart any semblance of disinterest. As a child, I chased geese.
Madly flapping arms, jumping frantically, desperately wishing, imagining lift. To brush wispy clouds with finger tips, tickling lightly the rays of the sun, beholding the great patchwork quilt spread before me. Yet two hours ago the world was pulsating with the rumors of spring
Birds chirping and bees buzzing with the appearance of new flowers The world was submerged in the infernos of new While I lie grabbing and grasping for the old The sky turned black spotted with bright yellows and whites I search the heavens desperate for the answers of the departed No visceral response has been made to my pleas Wisps of white and grey emerges and smolders as it inches from my lips Robbed of green,
of blue, of warmth; straining beneath the crush of lethargy. Cyclical death asphyxiates the land, beckoning close the silent storm: Again the stars it seems will fade,
sun start to light the sky-- Alas! Now gone the night so staid, my thoughts won’t quiet lie. I know I sleep in silence best, yet sorely wish to scream. Once again I found no rest; again I found no dreams. Oh my friend,
my love, my distant stranger. I’m writing this to you because I cannot go on, I need you to know the truth. I’m writing this to you because you’re the only man who has ever touched me in such a way that I myself, cannot even fathom. I need you to know you’re the only man who has ever made me go completely limp. As if the faint sound of your name makes my entire body tremble, and I fall I fall I’m falling—slowly. I “Don’t worry, everything will be fine,” that’s what everyone said. I hated that phrase. I was about ten when the signs started to appear. One minute I was fine, sitting in my same spot in the minivan, right behind mom. Just watching the dark silhouettes of trees pass in the window. Then it would hit. My throat would close up on me. My body burned like a rapidly spreading forest fire. Sweat poured from every pore of my little elementary school body. My body had turned on me. I felt the muscles in my throat clench, as if invisible hands were grasping around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. My young lungs, though weak with asthma, longed to inflate and just exhale. My body quaked. My chest pulsated so fast that I became nauseous. Though it lasted only minutes, hours seemed to pass by. It wasn’t until the fifth time, that my health was in question.
“Five…four…three…two…one….”
He sighs. I close my eyes. “Five…four…three…two…one….” The cold metal presses farther into my skull and my skin into it. Shaking. Bruising. Waiting. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to yell. Just do it. But the gun jerks back before I can. The bang drowns out the plea. The flame drains out my life. He looks at the ceiling, allowing the fluorescents to glare into my eyes, and he throws the gun away. It rattles and scrapes across the cold tile floor. And stops. (Based on a painting by Mark Ryden)
Wind her up. Make her feel like she is nothing but a trophy that stands upon your mantle. That’s it. Now trample on her feathers, rip the tulle of her tutu, and make her fall weak with eyes tired until she remembers the motions, until she remembers the steps; until she lives, eats, and breathes the name of dance. I am trying to pick the perfect strawberries
smelling the small containers, looking for fuzzy and furry spots when I hear someone who could sound like you ...if I listened hard enough. and still I look, frantic, wanting to shrink and crawl into the carton of sweet, juicy safety I am trying to return to normalcy although weekly chores feel like gearing up for battle; and there is no efficient camouflage for a suburban supermarket. my eyes begin shifting, searching, and scanning for familiar faces in the vegetable section, finding no one, thankfully. Why?
Why do we fall in love with the people we can’t have? Why do we spend our whole lives searching for the one when they might never exist? Why do we do all this stupid stuff to ourselves, so everyone will like us? Why do we even try? Why? |
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