untitled, 1

16.11.2017

i might be an open book. that’s a fair assessment. but not everyone reads between those lines, the handwriting petering out with an ever-dying pen. not everyone sees the notes at the bottom of the page, the cross-outs and the things that never made it to the finished copy. some people don’t even read at all.

“it’s hard.” i want to shout that sometimes at people that i feel a spark just speaking to, who ad nauseaum let chances for something amazing fly by. do you not see? “it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard!” – to make that genuine connection, not everyone is an exception but then, there shouldn’t be a rule. and i empathize, i understand, the want for love but the wariness of the affection – is it true? will it last? will it simply suffocate with memories of past sparks, flames that engulf, or will it withstand and make a showering firework, or will it go off in your hands? what can you do in this age when it’s easy to forget someone behind a veil? a pixel screen is the fail-safe for these things, you can break it open but no one is there. touch the static electricity. the optics are clear, and if not you can shade to simplicity so easily. we are harmless but still you fail to see the contrivances you’ve put in the middle, red tape of shades darker than i can passably cut underneath.

what do you have to lose in sharing yourself fully? i am not some monster lurking beneath your bed. i have not come with promises to fill a head with nonsense, but there’s something. does that mean nothing, now? i need a place to put my hands. the keyboard does the trick but it sticks like my voice when you won’t even talk, even try for a thing that stands a tiny chance of hurting. pain, huh, new concept, will it ruin you? straining to hear the voice of another above the work work work you have to do. i know, we’re all busy, but do you want to look back in a year and have regrets? i do not want to play a game. i prefer good conversation, and i will always know where i stand. i am still an open book, and you may have a story to tell. pick up the pen and write in me, and you may be surprised that you find it is as familiar and welcome as the one inside your head. i am the journal you never knew you could keep and you can consider yourself well read.

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tiny cuts

10.11.2017

snowdrops dancing on wind
whipped like custard, floating
down ever-spiraling to
frozen earth.
don’t worry, it melts
in your palms, your hair,
the tip of your nose as you
wait for the bus.
warm hands in pockets. headphones
tangled up and ugly,
cold-tinted windows and fog breath.

pages of dense subtext loose
long breaths of satisfaction
under the microscope. a papercut
quietly draws a single drop
of smearing red.
sublimation has come.
under examination, these tiny
cuts show themselves;
a million scars to match your own.
fissures already existing
to join skin in strange patterns
unique, but unwholesomely so.

knowledge and love, and mistakes.
new slices into the husk of me
sent off to meathouses
you no longer eat at.
i see you – changing like a tide
when there’s no moon to turn it.
now a thing you swore you hate.

i am to become a body grotesque.
trying to remain subsurface
proves only the incompetence
of the procedure
and the subject;
change was imminent and immense.
it did not matter in the slightest.

in this small space i find myself
glad you are well, glad for anything
that no longer involves me
feeling, no vitriol spat
against my tearing flesh.
if any fault was yours i’ve
long ago forgot it.

a snap is probably the way to do it.
when we dead wake it is
with a mourning manipulation
and several broken capillaries
around the eyes and mouth.
it could be gutted out yet;
wounds reopened and bled anew
because i’d still apologize, forgive,
love with this sinewy corpse –
but as i am terra-formed forgettable
you were richness removed and
myself the eluvium.

snow still spins downward
coating me in blameless white,
some devil’s flames come
to freeze me over,
palms of sawdust and
hair growing snakelike,
tip of my nose forever
brushing some feathered interior.
hands embrace the ruptured
scars. headphones splayed
across my desk,
no needless window, no breath.