Dreams are renewable. No matter what our age or condition, there are still untapped possibilities within us and new beauty waiting to be born.

-Dale Turner-

sâmbătă, 24 octombrie 2009


You watch the traffic outside cause caliginous puffs of ephemeral smoke and on a good day you call it a distraction.

Tonight you’re counting his flaws; tonight you’re counting to zero.

Years sleep into each other; heavy and delusional, soppy and withered.
Crouching with your lips pressed against your out-of-order knee caps and humming rhapsodies. You’re not going to leave; your conscience sits outside his window, your soul hangs on the clothesline and your heart is perched between his teeth, but you don’t want to look much closer.

The memoirs shine like blood rubies in your nebulous mind which is strewn across the open Kelly-green lawn. But he likes them there. He likes you there; all your parts embroidering the dull landscapes.

Tell yourself he just wants your obsession. He just wants your words, just your life, just one lovesick life. Your lips pout swollen in acceptance; it will do for now.

The throbbing in your clustered lungs makes you drink the oxygen in overdramatic gasps. You cough it up but it ebbs its way back down your throat. So drink it up, drink it up; sip on the redolence of cedar and patchouli; the aroma of home.

He’s glowing in the darkness; he’s the essence of your essence. Bokeh slow-dances behind him in perfect orbits and you might just fall asleep.
He loves you.
But he can’t tell you yet and you’re too tired to figure it out.

He gathers your pieces [which are warm and oaky when you’re clean] and brings you inside [with buckled bones and an empty chest]. The blood has set and it is drying out your skin.

You lie with your head in his lap somewhere in between the overdose of slumber and wake with neons giving your ghastly penny-shaped rings around your sunflower eyes.

The distortion is beautiful but he won’t use words to tell you that and your too far gone to see him crumble on the other side of your lids that are sewn tightly to your cheekbones.

He drops the heart to his palm and he leans in with your pulse still lingering on his tongue. His cold heart begins to condensate; a poison mix of testosterone and fucked up love. You don’t see it. You are completely oblivious to the swarm panic suckling at his toes and ears.

Get undressed.

Stupid. Fucked. He hates the feeling of blood-sick temples. And all you do is push push push when you’re pressed up against his frame [with your breasts sealed to his chest] and pouring yourself into the blank spaces of angry words while the sweat falls off his nose and races down your cleavage and makes him urge to chase it with his lips.

Chemical reaction.

I should have warned you earlier of his pending reflex. I cringe.
I watch my organ bleed again and it’s time to drag me back outside just like raggedy Anne. Take me by one wrist.

You’re lucky tonight; rain.
I remember - you’ll glow without russet blemishes under the star-peppered night sky. Your perfume hearts and warm oak will keep him awake. And lay down lay down is what he will hear because his upper body support will perish with his cheek in your fingertips.

You’re innocent.
You’re dizzy.
You’re a survivor.
You’re a lover.
You’re an infant.
You’re a woman.
You’ve done some things wrong.
I wish I could tell you ‘one hundred and forty-six nights to go.’

Note to self; you’ll be okay, breathe.

Pentru ca e ingrozitor de veche, pentru ca se potriveste conversatiilor mele cu Lya, pentru ca ma regasesc in refren, pentru ca mi-a plauct si mie odata Pink:

Pink U & Ur HAND
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1 comentarii:

Dyd spunea...

baby, everything is gonna be fine because we know it , it's all that we had been saying when things had gone bad.

so.. "you're not here for his entertainment!"

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