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wiltinglift my schoolgirl thighs.

preach your tempting words about how it's going to be "all-right."

"okay."

my skin is a field of carnations. they are fuschia.
no, lavender.  
it's 9:47 p.m. and the sky turned black too long ago.
the carnations wilt under starlight.
they cripple in your stride.

i kiss the ground you walk on.

but it's too little to say 
we're too young to be living like this,

and it's too much to say 
we're hurt by some fragment 
of our past 
and that's why we move crookedly.

no, we're not damaged.
you just know that i'm wrong.

i am
thoughtless
attention-seeking
negative
stupid
spoiled
you have pretty legsdear j, hurt me.

i feel you when i sleep, injected into dreams
you are the only girl who would ever say i'm broken

and still love me. love me more. my thoughts of you are
serpentine, dark, dreaming: women are this way

being a woman, loving a woman, this brings me to
the depths of mystery, unexplored hollows and 

untold secrets, stories we cannot recount, hinting.
loving a woman is reaching blindly for your own heart

with needle-tipped fingers, smoke escaping from
the many dialects of your tongue, animalistic,

blood spitting, nails ripping open layers of internal flesh,
opening things that shouldn't, can't,

forcing.
this is only a part of me but please just listen.you called it in,
thursday evening at six.
six, six. and let's say that again.
six.
i stare at you when i park my car and when the car goes into park
you are already sliding into the front seat, mumbling "hello" into my neck and i,
i smile my words back into your cheek and then
we get out

we meet outside of the car, in the lobby, like friends
so nobody stares.
this is normal, this is,
you know. average.

you called me down,
half past seven and the hotel room,
it looks glossy and beige,
white and pearly edges,
bathroom that smells like citrus:
orange juice, lemonade vomit,
vodka.

you called it love.
i would have picked a bet
fumai'll be honest. it scares me all the time.  the way it feels, the complete
inconsistency of reality, the dip of light and shadow as
what you perceive rips from what is perceivable.

even so, i miss it,
even though it's wrong, he is wrong, i want nothing
of either: i miss them.  i know.

you, you, are writing on my back, writing out your secrets
in felt-tip pen, in aubergine, en español.
que van debajo de mi piel. me encanta este... simplemente no se.

i am a bad girl with good taste:
mixing a cherished smile with the hot grin of smoke.
talk to me in circles, bilateral trapezoids, violet tongues

four hours, maybe five, spent sp
painchaserswhen the feeling hits me, i am playing
with knives in the dim light of the television, surrounded

by so many variations of glow, not watching
the spin of something on the screen, the colour

evaporating from my skin the way that the breath
suspires from me and, so doe-eyed

imagining you standing above me i look up,
smirking in my sick way and smiling in every way

opening up to you as a rose unfolds in sunlight
undressing her petals with soft licks of movement

you asked again if i believe in god and i
biting down on your shoulder i

might have some faith in something but not in
anything i can't see, i don't even believe

in mental i
crumbling,i have been awake for fifteen minutes.
your mouth in the crook of my neck feels

very much like sunlight, very much like i am
seeing things, schizophrenic and blue, hands shaking

like when i drive your car without looking at your body,
multicoloured and alive, listless in the front seat,

our music playing, breathing in the smell of leaves, of warmth.
your voice in my ear, you finding me in a crowd of people,

this is me remembering how lucky i am, how i am
more fortunate than i'd like to admit, knowing that

bleeding does not really hurt, exactly, because you cannot
comprehend the strength of the mind, a queen in feathers

and dark go
song of the new orphan
do you recall that afternoon that we were together?
of course you do.
there were so few.

like the first night I saw you. your skin pale as a
waterstain, body an empire of bones and
smaller numbers.

I wasn't supposed to be there.

The invisible worms could feel my lying
when I told you my name.
my ersatz skin was pulling and crawling,
telling me to get out. hungry. it is hungry.
when you sang, your muscles tore.

I love that sound.

:

That afternoon we were?
you do.
so few.

we collected dead leaves and ate nothing.
nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, you said,
and you screamed because you knew
when we looked up, we'd fin
heroini clutch the hands of my brothers
and cry hot tears into the opulent reflections of skies.
the sun, churning in you, reflects in my wine-coloured hair
and all of us children, grown up but still too scared
to be real adults,
keep touching my crimson waves, the glow, the repetition.  
there is animosity in every face we look into.  
we don't know how to be peaceful,
and we forget love as soon as it is shown.  
it is like hatred has a new face, a new throat
to swallow with, and it devours our skin
with a sound like flames.  it sparks, and we lift
the sagging corners of our mourning mouths
in what we hope looks like smiling,
memoirebruises line her arms
like dark lilies in the spring
awaiting rainfall
two minutes alonehe observes me in forgotten shades. "you are very grown up," he says, "youthful yet sharply beautiful, striking. it suits you, and you are..."--the silence encapsulates his words so they all seem collected like leaves on a branch-- "quite charming," he says, "your words, they're enrapturing."

i am the princess of swollen eyes and love bites. i enjoy shoving girls' faces into bare mattresses. i crumple up under friend's bodies like a ball of silk and try not to scream. i've put my car to clever use. my legs are a wreath of bruised white lilies around the neck of a wax-winged peter pan. there's no name for some of the things i have done, the t
one year, three months.a mystery of sound, a swallowing of clouds.
spitting up my silent synonyms, adjectives

not made grey by the spin of repetition.
spending my nights lost in memories, the

glint of glass, circular and hard as it tilts
to capture a miasma of despair, a horde

of silver christmas lights that twitter in the fog
outside, the scent of snow coming deep into

the breath of the window.  it is beautiful, everything
is beautiful, the world is bleeding beauty, and i,

i, my love, am not. you could trace constellations of
scars, from river to ravine in pink and white

landscapes across my hips.  you, mapping my skin,
so still, you stare and reach
some things you lose and some things you give awaybite your skin open, 
peel back the flesh. 
bite again, grate away 
bone. see your internal 
organs, little crumpled half-
devoured monsters, and my 
cold thoughts ignite, pale 
blue flame

-

it is 
two in the morning, 
october tenth. i am 
in my car, parked 
at a diner. there, 
i ate a salad, 
a chicken wrap. the 
waiter said, it's a 
lot of food. i 
said, i'll be fine.
i am in my car, 
not really fine. 
the remainder 
of the chicken wrap is in 
a white box at 
my knees. i devour 
it, finishing in a 
few bites. 

what you 
are not told about 
eating disorders is the 
obsession. it's like holding 
your breath: if you 
stop breathing, all you
0: i knew the sweetest girl,0:
girl of cinnamon,
rubbing her wrists with sugar,
bruising to sweetness.
i'm godthe other night
i drove home from your house and i
felt the incredible pull of life slipping at me,
out from under my skin. if you think about it,
if you really think about loving me,
it probably doesn't seem like a good idea.

i'm decomposing from the inside out, or maybe
outside in.
i kill myself as the world
nibbles on my skin, and we are both
confusing each other
with strange concepts and conceptions.
videos playing in our minds,
soundless flashbacks of water
and the perfect shade of warm blue,
that fucking shade
of water that will always be paired
with the yellow of my hand, something
indiscriminate to t
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December 4, 2012
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Journal Entry: Tue Dec 4, 2012, 10:22 PM
"We must not discriminate between things. Where things are concerned there are no class distinctions. We must pick out what is good for us where we can find it."

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  • Listening to: i'm in love witch you - black ceilings
:iconrspeirs:
~RSpeirs Dec 6, 2012
Where can we find it though?
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