Like a slightly cracked piece of china. A little off, but looks salvageable. Turn it sideways. No one will notice. It will sit in the cabinet, just like the rest. Perfect. From afar, you can hardly tell. There’s nothing wrong. Until you pick it up, without realizing just how delicate you should really be. This little china teacup would like you to think it’s just as sturdy as the others but really, it shouldn’t be for you, for use, for anything at all. No, no.

You wouldn’t even have to rough it up a bit. Toss it around a little, hold it a little too tightly, or just plain’ old forget about each and every accident that led to each widening crack and– there she goes. Right, right down the middle. Who knew it to be so fragile.

A crack can slowly split in a cup in half, you know, if you use it before it’s fully repaired.

You used to ease through my mind like pornography, grabbing hold of every moral thought and fucking them, slowly and painlessly. You moved like music, your skin, my skin, perfection.

How little we move, we change, within five or so years. I will never be new. At least it’s not simply as terrible. Or perhaps it is.

minus the PG (sexual)

This repulsive cold in the air has created an itch in me

Despite the albatross manner in which this blanket sits around me, I cannot bring down this itch upon (and in and out and under) her. It covers me, in desperation, a coalition to breathing. In this envelope, she is the catalyst to the ending. I bring armies of the apocalyptic to the absolute apexes; we bring alliteration, aphorism, and apothecaries for the after rendition. The crowning of such a particular crux is only brought about by a crudity found solely in her own cruelty.

The cinematography of the situation involves a certain cynicism the form of abbreviations, a voyaging girl cavorting and chortling and chording with a single enemy: absolution in her own truest form. What a gamble, to caper in such a manner. Even hidden under itching blankets, or perhaps that is the reasoning itself for such romping. Yet, the manner in which she should choose to gambol, in her fit and true and itch, her rationale is her way to wunderkind (outfit in bullion and ingot). The she and me of course are coinciding, evading issues in rhythmic format under debatably dubious skies: ah, to cling to the impossibility. There is no perfection in this photography.

-       -

A kingdom of desperation is not a kingdom at all, no—-

I am not starved for attention so you must find it nothing but cryptically true                                                                                            when I determine that                                                                                                                                                                                                           I am not to be yours.                                                                                                                                                                                                           In this ill-fortuned moment, I realize I capitulate to no one but the blue.                                                                                                                                                                                          A convergence of hips and wrists along the jaw and kiss                                               

  fates little within the kingdom of cupidity.                                                                        

Filled with backwater avarice (fogging up the passengers carriage, what lust and travesty!) this particular sovereignty will shackle you to the floor, but with little to do with time constraining commitments and more a quick switch of the evening gown and incalculable spherical activity.

There will be no silver encrusted (maybe in this age– carbon fibre) plated knights in wait to keep you prisoner, their swords screaming Excalibur. This monarchy is a disgrace to any fable but perhaps in tales of Grimm, where the suitor always ends up on the floor with his heart fraying on the floor, ruptured and infected by the hand of an unwavering Queen. Her safe passage to the land of inability promises a heartless (by less it is meant to involve naught) catastrophe, a fall out with the path to an inevitable break.

Is it not impending with one so callous and oblivious?                                                           

In fact, most often, significant sensations that warm the heart, that thereof affection (the dip out of the ice, the step towards tranquility as credited by many a lovers saga)  and the like are confused with that of the most likely:                                                             simply yearnings of Aphrodite, imagine the orgasm in organic.

For now, for now for now, this kingdom welcomes and returns a certain caliber of sociability, but only if you leave your heart and all recognizable requirements at the gate with the only soldier around and be sure to remember your way out .            

                        You really would not want to lose way in this caricature of stability,                                                                                        this farce of a stable kingdom that holds true but only to outside onlookers.

                                                                                                                                                            You will never forget the mess that you have left behind.

It is odd. In the loud, one cannot hear voices. Attempts to differentiate distinctions are disturbed by the overbearing clamor of sounds. Yet— in the quiet, arguably, one hears not anything, because it is as such. Simply that. The quiet. The loud and the quiet, particular opposing forces, are not quite the same. But still. They are not so different, these days.

In the quiet, I am silenced. I quiver and wish to be under the dark. In terms of thematic journaling, the in shade is where I breathe best. If I could, I would demonstrate as such. Like writing with your eyes closed, feather and ink spilling all over your fingertips. This era is not memorable, anymore. Not me, not like this.

To breathe, in the quiet, in the loud, in the dark. I said. If only. In truth, I can scarcely breathe at any moments or hours, but the dusk with its gaping shadow is the cause of most suffocation. As though undead, it creeps over me and settles, an umbrella of lung-shearing amplification. As a fiend, it comes at me, pulling from my insides until I feel an upward movement; this is often the moment before your heart falls limp.

In these pulsating moments, I fear for my last. I am having my last breath drawn from me from this demon that lives within, casually leafing through my novels of fantasy and nonchalantly consuming my every last piece of butter-soaked homemade banana bread. It’s ridiculous. I barely made enough for one of us. We sit in the loud, in the quiet, together, as though family until so casually it clambers over to me and in one wheezing-dust soaked shot, grabs at my lungs. You can almost hear the crushing and the faint sound of my skin reaching a pleasant shade of alice or perhaps azure blue—it’s often a debatable shade.

You know that feeling, when you’re in the loud, and no one can hear you and you are up to a whisper you’re so voluble, and it’s so loud you’re in the quiet now; (and in the quiet it’s deafening, it’s riotous, it’s a raucous) Search for it. Yes that feeling, that sense of urgency, of having everything you know taken away from you, in one quick swift, where you realize you never had a preference or were even allowed on. Let it fume in you. Bask in it. That is me, here, right now, struggling to find air with the bearing’s of this hour hovering over me, eating dinner with me, taking melancholy walks under celestial skies with me.

Imagine holding your breath for countless hours like you were a recovering smoker with bronchitis, blood sticking the back of your palms as you cough up your dignity. Imagine your lungs expanding inwards on random, spitting out colloquial phrases at you about how you should be normal. Imagine environmental changes cutting off your circulation and seeping into your veins, drugging at you like at the end of an addiction. Imagine being robbed at gunpoint with a glock under your chin and someone’s hand in your wallet. Imagine the life being sucked out of your from a vacuous entity, an attempt to harvest your organs in exchange for a little air. Imagine. But worse. Every day. It’s unbearable. I could not even properly explain if I tried.

I cannot vanquish it, no matter how hard I try. I am constantly left with this paradoxical pulse, breathing into tubes and vacillating pressure in my poetry ingesting verbal backwash inflowing airways. I cannot remember a time when I made sense, or, most accurately, when I could properly exhale.

It is odd. In the loud, one cannot hear voices. In the quiet, one hears not anything, because it is as such. In the loud, no one can hear me. In the quiet, I am silenced. My fear now, is that at once, in the norm, I will be ultimately silenced for good, by the vulgar ill resting within me. I am running out of banana bread.

I know I don’t make sense.

Despondent Demon Girl

You are attempting to condemn me with your eyes
Pythia, divinity, your disgraceful excuse for a mind
humors you; these thoughts, is this what you believe?
Goddess, sibyl, you are being teased by your own self
You have no human, under those eyes
You lack quintessence, under those eyes
You’re a mechanical whoring succubus
You use and you abuse, raping with a simple touch

At your expense I will not smother your self-respect
You have no majesty recognizable and so I swear
I will not paint you this panorama
I am not you nor will I ever be, I am a being and you,
You have positioned yourself within the claws of society
I beg you not to rethink your life, for I no longer care
Impetus is not my soul regarding you, I live by this inertia
Torpor masks my soul; this languor I feel is not out
of indolence, but because for you
You have no choice for I have walked away

Your decisions are all but yours, even though you believe
that you are the archetype of individuality
One day you shall look into the mirror and see
your exaggerated demeanor and you will feel naked,
and I will not be there to clothe you
Because hitherto I had felt sorrow for you
But that feeling is no longer as I see

Your sister the soul-destroying incubus
She laughs at me as I walk down the halls
She has never known my walk, until this moment
You have trained her well.
Entering histrionics almost daily,
I wonder where your life is going
You tower over me now in long shadows of faked doom
But you and I both know that someday I shall see you again
And all too happily I shall hand you a broom and once again,
I will walk away, sweeping all thoughts of you away with yesterday.

Mother accidently
lit her hair on fire,
and wonderful child that I am,
I laughed at her
because
the front strands of her bangs
looked like straw.