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The bad days never end
Monday, October 20, 2014 || 4:07 PM
— this is the lowest point of my entire existence.
Bad few days
Sunday, October 19, 2014 || 2:01 PM
Perhaps if I lie here long enough, I'll become part of the floor — part of interior design, layers of me beneath your feet. No need to tread gently: I am already all bruises and scars, a vessel of warm tears in a leaking ship. I am too much flesh and not enough skin; too much pain and not enough reason to stay.
I will not falter, though I fear I am already too late.
You (i)/countless
Monday, October 13, 2014 || 2:53 PM
Your voice is ricocheting off my skin as if it is water and I am a ceramic surface — cold, hard but easily damaged. Hit me twice and hairline cracks will skim my exterior. Hit me thrice and I'll crumble before your eyes.
This is hunger I've never known — this clumsy greediness spilling over my hands and onto your lap. I want, no need, no want, no need all of you: heat flirting with my every sense, my longing stretched over your bones like skin.
I wrote this awhile back and I'll write it again; spray paint it over ceilings and drag it through the mud: you cannot make homes out of people.
God help me but I already did.
-
Wednesday, October 8, 2014 || 8:10 PM
(wrote you a letter and then trashed it)
Unconditionally
Saturday, October 4, 2014 || 2:24 AM
i.
your whole being
is untenable:
flawed and insupportable,
i try my best
to grasp on to shaky corners
and straighten my back
so you don't fall
ii.
i hear your voice tremble
over ceaseless admissions,
'who is there?'
i am here. i am
always here.
iii.
despite
your wayward tendencies
and hopeless fallacies:
i will wrap you
around my sinews and
love you whole.
(I haven't written in awhile, excuse this)
Thursday, October 2, 2014 || 10:29 AM
I knew your face before I knew your name — the crow's feet that line your eyes and the chiseled angles of your jawline before the word I repeat in hushed tones over two glasses of Vodka and three glasses of ice cold water.
I knew your name before I knew your story — each syllable carefully rolled off my tongue and slipped into the open, the taste of your nomenclature on the insides of my mouth (sweet, yet fiery like liquid nitrogen) before the tellings of what made you. How you scraped your knuckles falling off a bike when you were six, but was more concerned about the damage to your bicycle — something not as living breathing consuming as you are. It made me wonder how much you had to give.
I knew your story before I knew I loved you — the way your heart works before I was aware it was capable of capturing mine.
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