say it; mean it

→moved

Thu, 27 Mar 2008 17:21:56 GMT

sophistically [update your links please]

Suicide

Sat, 08 Mar 2008 22:34:42 GMT

and see, your breath
tastes like death

I crawl into your chest
settle in your heart
drink a little soul
and have you as my own
my lips, swollen
hinge on your ribcage
the affection dangles from my eyes
as you say my name

and the shiver
rises up my spine
intense, and your skin is
flush against mine

and see, your mind
tastes like suicide

Heart

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 03:38:14 GMT

A world of white.

She's got the patience of a saint so she'll wait. The color is bound to come back, right?

Someone has left flowers in a vase. They're somewhat pretty; yellow and well bloomed. The water is clear enough that she can see through the vase and into the wall. No need for that, though -- it's the same everywhere. The white washed walls have no adornments and a general strangeness that makes her toes curl and uncurl restlessly. The pin prick sensation of a needle shoots through her arm which heightens the tension that's already building up to a crescendo in her chest.

("I've got a heart.")

Something akin to panic worms across her chest and settles in the crevices of her rib cage. His fingers are pressing into her collarbone and the sensation crawls along the surface of her skin, muscle quivering under touch. She wants very much to kiss him but swallows that disastrous impulse along with her feelings that are rising up her throat like an off key melody.

God, she wants to touch him; just a fleeting memory of how his cheek, or his lips, or the length of his arm feels.

Sucking in a breath, lips punctured by a neat row of teeth, she sits back and tries to remember.

("Now," and she imagines that instead of breaking him she's putting him back together. "It's all a mistake.")

She thinks, with a fierceness not her own, that this wracking in her chest, this falling down from the inside; it isn't because he's leaving. It's because he's left.

Picking life apart with her fingers; he lingers like dirt underneath her fingernails and she bends over, trying to cry him out.

(His voice cracks into her, sharp and precise and she stands, there, a fallen angel, unbalanced and without her wings. Crude and vicious he tears her into little, symmetrical pieces and she thinks it's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.)

"Listen," and he does.

Her words sound like running water through his ears; it tickles when she begs and itches when she doesn't. Her words gurgle in and out; through and through and he focuses on the curve of her lips gone awry at the middle, a depression that rises up as her voice often does. Then, it's all smooth and red and fierce.

Her clever fingers press into his spine and the adoration in the back of his mouth, stagnate, splinters his heart.

(She reaches into his chest with the ghost of her fingers and pulls out what she's wanted all along. In pieces, his heart quivers underneath a rush of blood, seeping through her slender, quick fingers and she smiles as sad and nostalgic as the very first day.)

"You never did want me," she points out, matter of fact. Face half turned, shadows flitting across her cheekbone and her elongated eyelashes that give the illusion of depth in her pretty, girlish eyes. "Just," a pause, anxious and adolescent. "... the idea of me, I think. Something beautiful and young and flighty; something romantic and fragile and breakable. Oh, you did love to break me."

"I never --"

"Are you sure you want to use that word," she interjects.

His sincerity acquires a degree of cynicism, suddenly --

(Oh.)

"Yes."

And that, as they say, is that.

"Where will you stay?"

Palm open, she presses her weight unto the suitcase and the clasps, clicking into place, solidify her intentions. A deep, unhurried breath is complimented by a sharper, truer inhale because he can't breathe.

"Tomorrow, when I leave," she says and she smiles, so little and so wrong that it tears and tears and tears and he can't --

"I'll want my heart back."

Cataclysm

Wed, 23 Jan 2008 02:15:36 GMT

Cataclysm
seven ways seven days can break hearts.

I. For too long he stands there, and she stands a little more than a breath apart. He smells like loneliness and dead flowers in between cracked, creased pages. She knows this because she tilts her world just enough to catch the bitterness at the edge of his lips and the guilt that blooms along his collarbone like a spill of blood from a severed neck.

III. "For you," she wants to say but he beats her to it. Closing his heart just enough so she can't wedge in -- the door is oddly comforting because it saves her from watching him walk away. The silence is worse than all of his words, so, then, she just sits and imagines what it would have been like.

VI. There is no silence, not even in death. Her skull is touching the base of the porcelain tub and her hair is all around her -- a gesture she might appreciate if she could breathe, but she can't so she doesn't -- and the bubbles are rising from her nostrils and they sound like footsteps in her head. The world is like river glass from beneath the water, from on top of death, and all she can think about is how death is a lot like living; just a bunch of waiting. Then, her thoughts suffer a transition and he's there and he's telling her how incredibly stupid and --

She rises from the water, coughing, hands clawed against the rim.

II. He sits and watches her, entertained. Notices her words; I hate you, and then, goodbye. Notices, too, the streaks of silver. Then he stands and takes her hands, watches her fight a little, and as she sinks into submission draws her up and tells her; "It'll be alright."

"It will," her voice is small and he splinters from the pressure. "But I wont."

IV. Her hips are swinging and her fingers are treading air to the high pitch notes that diffuse throughout the room. She feels hot, too hot, and wonders if she's flying too close to the sun and if her wings might melt. She turns around, to tell him because it'd make him laugh and God knows he doesn't do enough of that -- not here, she reminds herself -- and with a violent twist, she falls against the wall.

It strikes her odd that her tears taste like something she's had before, like a milkshake or sour milk or --

Him, a distinct pressure overtakes her face and her heart. Her tears taste like him.

V. "It was a dream," and her voice is hoarse and overused. Her heart is still exhilarated by the sight of him, the smell and the touch of him. Her words transform as she sinks into the bed.

"It was just a nightmare."

VII. The doubt and the gnawing loneliness retreat neatly underneath her fingernails and into the shadows of her eyelids. His mouth is moving and sound is coming but the beating of her heart, the pumping of blood is deafening. The pin point cracks mend and the sun rises.

Make You Stop

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 23:01:28 GMT

I want to be pin point precise --
dig my fingernails into your chest
feel the outline of your heart

you beat in the back of my head
like a tumor

I turn to this affair
and despair

under another circumstance
sure, I might --
but this isn't that
and I am not her.

I convulse
and I confuse
and I ache
and you come --
and I refuse.
I don't want
to use
you.

and if I could bring up the words
from the very back of my throat
and string them along --
like you've done me all along
well,
maybe then --
but this dreaming is pointless.

breath deep,
eyes closed
I'm too tired
to make you stop.

The Prince

Wed, 02 Jan 2008 05:27:59 GMT

Her lips are somewhat defective -- the lowerlip is a fraction larger than the upper and there's some discoloration that outdoes the virulent shade -- and they always quirked upwards in some ridiculously frivolous smile. She realizes, with a protrusive frown, that he knows her better than she ever could. In some ways, he is too charming for her to notice. In some ways, she is too dazzled to even care. Thus, the synchronization of their heartbeats commences and there is little to be done to stop it.

Devastatingly charming, he is, with a sharp manner of reminding company that they are shamefully ordinary. Sometimes she defeats the plain, painful hateur he dispels admirably, and other she simpers like the rest of his adulating crowd, mindless and loving it. He makes it fun, this childish infatuation; half not giving her what she wants and half giving her what she needs.

There are personal touches to his persona that radiate and then die out systematically. Some reach her and invade her, making her incapable of refusal. Others fill her to the brim with frustration, an ache that reaches to her fingertips, shooting straight through muscle and flesh and into bone. Inescapable, the situation makes itself more present every single day.

It is an impending disaster when he --

("You're just another girl, a little less ordinary but still the same as all the rest.")

-- reaches out and touches her arm and the slightest of intimacies flashes between them ever so briefly. Then, determined to capture her as one might a pretty bird in a cage, he draws her a little closer, a little more uncomfortable --

(A laugh, "You get angry so quickly -- and competitive, too.")

And whispers, breath soft and dangerous; "Are you afraid?"

She's not afraid, she's fucking terrified. "No," a twist of her head to avoid the invasion of personal space. A forceful pull takes her into him and suddenly the fluorescent lights are blinding.

("I'll destroy you," he doesn't say but she hears anyway. A rueful smile on her part and then, "Not if I destroy you first.")

"Let go of me," she grounds out. The anger flushes unto her cheeks and he mistakes it for a blush, keeping on.

"Don't love me too much," he warns her as he lets her go.

"Don't worry," outraged, she buries her snarl behind a neat row of teeth. " -- not about that. Not in the least."

The last is said as more of an afterthought. The more she thinks about the more she hates it. And the more the hates translates into love.

In this fairytale, twisted and tangled it seems that he, will bring her the apple.

Turning around again, he smiles and her anger, displaced and disoriented, ebbs away. Undone and ashamed, she tries to think about something despisable, something incredibly low and shallow and --

And she takes a bite.

Says

Thu, 27 Dec 2007 21:48:40 GMT

he says,
"you're a liar,"
and she smiles.
because it is true.

the silence is worse
than all of his words
"I've got a heart,"
she says.
but he doesn't believe.

"this is just my adolescence,"
he whispers.
"I've got years and years to go."
she turns her head,
kisses the air
and adds,
"Years and years to let you go."

fingers through hair
hands on heart
"I've got a heart,"
she says.
and this time he knows.

he says,
"you're a liar,"
and she cries.
because it is true.

Follow

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 22:15:15 GMT

We pretend like we understand when the reality is that we're lost.

She winds her hair in her fingers oh-so pretentiously, and the bubble blows from the inside of her mouth and pops loudly on the outside. The gum is colored pink, and impossible, so after peeling it off her lips she spits it out like a bad remark. There is no life here, in this room, composed of dust and book; lovers that hide in the narrow rows of shelves to whisper secrets that die out within the second. It's so disgusting and intriguing the way they cling -- people -- to each other, some horrible physical manifestation of a mental problem that kills them from the inside out. Loneliness is the trigger, and identity is the motive, the simplest explanation is that its really just a crime that's been going on for ages and ages.

She stretches her legs abstractly, pale flesh seared by the fierce sunlight. There, underneath a crevice in her inner thigh is a secret, a scar, and a disappointment. It has been a very long time since she's felt anything about anything and resentment dances on her eyelids and tickles her nose.

"You are," languidly her head turns. "... really beautiful, you know?"

"Uh-huh," a half smile flits across her face. "I'm paying for it."

"Your lips," his fingers follow his words. "Are so red, like blood -- the fresh kind before the oxygen oxidizes it. Is it expensive?"

"Very," she nods and motions to the faint curve at opposite ends. "My entire life, actually."

The gesture that follows is excruciatingly intimate -- fingers pressing into her arm, drawing her unavoidably close -- and she shivers when his breath touches hers.

"I was just wondering," clarity punctuates every single word. "If you taste as good as you look."

Trepidation fills her, a crawling anxiousness as he takes her face into his hands and takes in her scent and her life. Exhilaration charges the electrical particles that dance in the air and she swallows, vainly steeling herself to betray no emotion. But, with him, that is always impossible. The kiss has a burlesque fashion to it, a tinge of harlequin that smears the moment with indecency.

Violently shaking with fingernails clawed into his shoulders, the end of the kiss feels like the end of the world.

I love you," coming from him it sounds like a promise.

"I love you," and from her, a tragedy.

He cannot bring her back so when she is over, she is over.

A splash of red across the ceaseless white. It fills him with disgust.

Heaven knows her and Hell will learn.

And he will follow.

I Know

Sat, 08 Dec 2007 00:50:12 GMT

sometimes I think
I'm just one of your misadventures
a thinly veiled cut
a crude indiscretion

I love you,
and your soul
and the cracks
that are beneath your skin
the shallow breaths
you take
the way I inhale
so you can exhale

it's just a small price to pay
the two-faced nature of this game
we deserve each other
we both hurt each other
to bring the other down
(well, you know)

we hold out for a hero
but end up with being torn
it's not enough just to hear you
I just want you to know --

I love you,
and your soul
and the cracks
that are beneath your skin
the shallow breaths
you take
the way I inhale
so you can exhale

sometimes I think
I'm just one of your misadventures
a thinly veiled cut
a crude indiscretion

it's just a small price to pay
(well, I know.)

See The Sun

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 22:30:31 GMT

don't you wish you had me
like you had me before?
one step into your heart
another out the door

well,
I feel a little better today
well,
I wake up put together today

I wish I could convince myself
that everything is okay
somehow that backfires
and the disbelief translates unto my face

point and case made
I look straight into your face
and I feel nothing

I am having
a one sided conversation
through a mental
two sided mirror

somehow safe isn't as safe
as I wanted to be

and all of that
excruciating perfection
falls away

I suppose I'm unstable
and unable
to let go

still,
it's a beautiful day
I think I'll go out
and forget all about you

I'll fight my clouds
your eclipse
and see the sun

Insane

Sun, 25 Nov 2007 00:11:55 GMT

this wickedness
wash it all away

the defect here
is my weakness
and you are only
on a slight advantage

I feel as if
I feel nothing

and underneath
these consequences
I still love
the impossibility

so we can't bridge an understanding
and all of these promises are for compensating
what you can't provide

so monotone
I wonder if --
could you, please
admit to me

you've led me into a state
of sane dementia
and that makes as much sense
as everything else

there must be a reason
and I gamble my life
trying to understand
comprehend
how its torn us apart

and an unfair request;
try, for just a moment
to identify
with how I feel

the breath in me
is solely
composed of defense

break them
and you would
ultimately break me

its useless
terrifying
frightening
how altered
we both are

is it
sick of me
to hold you prisoner
without any intention
of letting you go?

if I could see me
as clearly as you do
I might hate myself

so then, should I be
thankful?
that I am,
incapable
of compromise

I might turn the tables
if I could glimpse
but you wont let me in
and all of this effort is forfeit

this is all too much
heartbreak, no one could
survive
but you and I?
we've done just fine

and are you
in love with someone else
if so, do me a favor
and tell her
that I'm not through with you
yet.

Sour

Sun, 25 Nov 2007 00:10:40 GMT

the reality of the realism
is sour at best

the realization
of a failed manipulation
causes great aggravation
at the blatant anticipation

the light is composed
of darkness and malice
and clever prose

did you ever consider
that I linger
behind a series of masks?

come under the assumption
that you're dragging me asunder
and you'd be
-- and this is annoyingly painful --
correct.

I ask you
so unfairly,
because I can't decide
what I want.

and the reality of the realism
is sour at best