it won't, i know that.Let me tell you a story. Let me paint you a picture.More Like This
It’s dark and I’m alone and the wind is howling and once upon a time, I might have made this sound poetic. I’m crying, but it’s not pretty. I’m crying and my nose is red and my hands are shaking and the cigarette is limp between my scarred, calloused fingers. I once might have made this sound pretty. I might have made it sound desirable. Did you want a high? All you had to do was touch my skin, to feel your way down my sweat-slicked hips. Did you want to get buzzed? You just had to soak in the passion like alcohol and let your mind go wild. I used to have nothing but chaos to offer. Now I just have memories – do you want to take them?
But you won’t. I know that. I paid the price and life paid me. Whatever I once had is gone and it’s been replaced with this shaking emptiness. I can no longer get drunk. I just get sad. I sit at broken pianos and think about the music they used to make, li
these roads we travelYou could've been the girl who changed me.More Like This
I've fallen down and fallen apart enough times that it gets hard to remember, but sometimes I study my scars in the sunlight and trace the patterns back through time. I spend my mornings living in memories, reliving the places I've scuffed myself, and I've found that romance is better in hindsight. Her kisses are sweeter tinged with nostalgia, and it almost feels like I'm whole again when I'm thinking of the dents she put in my pulse and smoothing out the wrinkles she left in my resolve. For a moment, there's equilibrium, but then the sun is setting and I'm disoriented, dropping fragments of myself between cracks in the sidewalk I'm following down the street and towards an independent sunset. I'm standing on the corner and waiting for the light to turn, and you show up with a wayward smile cradled in your fingers. You press it into my grasp and I'm thinking maybe I've spent too much time looking at my flaws instead of my potential.
You could h
interrupted slumber of storiesi.More Like This
take me apart the way a reader would a bookshelf.
tenderly slip graceful fingers along the bumps
and bristles and nooks, sweep your palm along
rigid flesh until it comes away gray with dust.
remove every tome and stack them into a teetering
pile so that their voices clamor together - a sound
like slowly tilting a box full of small bells,
quiet fairy speak that tells of gritty sand and
lost boys and
the science of usacceleration = gravitational pull / massMore Like This
You didnt send my heartbeat into a frenzy the first time I saw you. It was a month or two before I started feeling the little palpitations inside my chest and made sure that my hand accidentally brushed against yours every now and then.
(I wanted to make sure you got used to the feeling of my atoms colliding with yours.)
I told myself it was stupid and simply physical. You werent pulling my heart strings, you were toying with my belt buckle by smiling at me across the room and asking me to spend time with you on a Saturday afternoon. I was sold by the time you pulled into my driveway and my name slipped from between your lips.
(Sweaty palms and twisted vocal chords told me no one said it quite like you.)
I promised myself this was strictly a one-way thing. I feigned like I felt nothing, and in my nervousness I became the witty jackass. You laughed at my barbed-wire jokes and sped through a red light while I was watching
mutethings have been easierMore Like This
without words &
we pretend neither of us care;
laughing and choking
on puns &
when you bend me over nouns
the words are there waiting to be spoken
me . you . love
my dear, we've been mute
for so long
speak to me.
100 sunday crosswordsthis is a story of broken piecesMore Like This
letting go feature by feature;
shattered pieces, ice rain,
and something blacker than sadness
turning from snowfall to knives
and the scarlet ground that follows.
this is about knowing when to stop
but never knowing the time.
because fingers snap louder in the cold,
they shiver and shake, shiver and shake
until the tremours turn to bone
and you feel it when they break.
a century's warning isn't enough to prepare for an earthquake;
a thousand years is still a blink when the last sinews
there is nothing welcome about the open air
and how it bites your exposed skin,
its teeth sharpen and gnash,
dull enamel that scrapes,
and the bleeding won't tell you
how it stops.
just because you have spent a hundred sundays
pouring over the globe's crosswords
doesn't mean you'll find that eight letter word,
for a warning sign of dissipation.
you will never see the end nearing,
you will never know when to stop,
i swear you will,
feel the way the