Skeleton fingers and backbones like dinosaurs:
we worship at the altar of our suffering.
I don’t even know what I’m living for.
The ones I suppose I love are all here, falling with me,
down this hole, into the dark.
By S. Demich
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alone is a place now:
hesitant and familiar,
filling up with light and just as quickly
cast into darkness
echoing with an endless voice that never sits still.
an attic room in which to drink the sun in through the eyes,
somewhere to unlearn the feelings of lips, hands, throat, heart.
loneliness: not a sadness,
but the drug that keeps me unraveling. -
➜
it’s difficult to pinpoint the moment i stopped touching you.
it happened subtly, one of those mornings
just before i opened my eyes.
and then our bodies didn’t quite fit together anymore and
your speech became little pieces of dust,
collecting on my clothes.
now when you look at me my heart collapses and i can hardly breathe.
every word you speak curls me farther inside myself and
i imagine that this crushing feeling is your hands,
wrapped around my throat.
out of your angel eyes pours the devil,
greedy mouthed and insatiable,
possessing me.
love and hate hold hands in the dark and breathe in a mirror pattern,
in then out then in,
taking turns. -
➜
i compare my bad dreams with memories of last summer.
our fingers show in all the photos, long dark and crooked like tangled telephone wires desperately delivering you the wrong persons voice.
every letter we wrote will be devoured by circumstance.
you’ve long since disappeared and i’m standing crippled at the crossroads, choking on the dust our choices left behind.
