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i am so stuck. between what i shouldn't want and what i should. i want what i shouldn't, wish i wanted what i should. in the meantime, i'm singing. there are songs my sour voice is suited for; there are songs my stiffened fingers can encompass.
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(she's in my head; I can't stop)

She is vanilla. Summersweet black lace pinup vanilla whip; her skin and her cigarettes. I want to buy her cigarettes and smoke one seeing her lips and remembering their sweetsmoke taste. Summer sun assaults my sad eyes and I am shifting. Shapeshifting I think there is something new inside, some shy form glimpsed and nowhere and
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(too soon) my new hot love, truer and vast

My head is strafed with thoughts of her; my heart is a weapon. She is a reverberating bell; she is the only one in any crowded room. If only my eyes were cameras to record her movements, her eyes; if I could see her eyes now, now, and then, and ever. She would grab me by the throat and push me against things. She is smoke and I glass, she is in and all, in and all around me.

My heart is a weapon warring for her against guilt, license and awe. My heart is a machine as cradled. If only paper were thunder I would have my battle cry. I would throw everything I have against her fences until my body breaks or they do -would, don't.

I don't and don't and don't.

She is reverberating; she is tensile. She is smoke and she is solid. She is solid as continents, shifting stone and soil, slow illusion. She is a gone world and my hands long to draw her out, draw her in. Old maps are drawn with devotion: she is the work of years and I want to start.

I want to start.
  • Current Music
    the mars volta - cassandra gemini
portrait of

(no subject)

I cut my own hair; I cut my own order, cutthroat cut out cut in align and outline, obelisk, centric prose and con. Cut-eyed sun-strafed scissor stripped and seeing: cutting edge ripe and welling, cutting skin. Scissored self, pain I understand. Shattered on the tallest blackest, from the farthest, scattered to the wind. Pain I understand, rippled not worn, ornamental monumental delicacy -the scalpel shone. The scalpel over shoulders shining deep into circles drawn for it: I am drawn for it, deep drawn, deep down.
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(no subject)




Stronger and stranger to myself. They worry, but I see clearly. I exist on each axis; I am perched on my own shoulder observing, waiting to dive into myself again.
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(no subject)

me & you not arriving

I described it simply: you two were so beautiful, curled into each other (my hands, curled, becoming one and the other, and coming together)

my hot heart beating, beating, beating
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(no subject)

I wish we could have just one fucking honest moment. Just once when I say something unbelievable, believe me. Believe in me for I am ME, the ME that with YOU named US "together". HEART and GUT and LIMB are heaving harder and soon will break upon each other. and for what. fuck. for unsatedness. for cubism, for rotation, for maybes and i-don't-knows and have-nots. for want-nots, even. fuck. (can you close the window? yes.) FUCK.
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(no subject)

Life leaves me completely drained, just completely drained. I think my heart is built like a city now, and I want to tear down the skyscrapers and watch vines push through concrete, observe the beginning of sweet air and infinite motion, observe the beginning of a wild place.
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(no subject)

sometimes i look over my shoulder and i swear my shadow is doing what i want to do but dont sometimes our shadows intertwine in ways we cant sometimes i understand myself too much as sharp vignettes sometimes i forget that air turns into things and out sometimes rotation is all the meaning i can find

We're all writing a different story than we mean to, to paraphrase J.M. Barrie.