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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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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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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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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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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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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.
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"Shhhh." She wore a red elastic band around her middle finger. It was wrapped four times around. "Let's try to understand each other. Quietly."
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I was in a better place.


I want to be made. I want to be a student of something: I want to learn to say something. I want to be made to see that my time and my colours aren't so vivid as blood and disaster; I want to be made to see with my eyes mostly closed.

I'm trying to be among infinites. I'm trying to be a part of this. I'm trying to stand never sated by the thick softness of my young graceless body; I'm trying to stand challenged by imagery, by both hands.
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transience as we
heart as nexus
blood as exploratory
need as written
promise as stone
never as tidal
never as cradled
never as pouring
never as kept
shadows as aging
asking as engulfed
place as version
realization as colourless
eyes as axis
endless as imagery
(many as one,
one as many.)
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I only want to read the writers who look through brick walls.



They found something that day, and it had been moored to them all along. They called it love because love was the softest sound they could say. When the first person said love, they were silenced whole minutes just feeling its thick softness in their throats, just feeling sated.



I wish you could hear me say these words, because when I say them they are true. Words move through heart and throat and lips, and their quietest sound is the roar of oceans when you hear it.