Extract Longing; Hold It. Disclosure, Full Between Your Palms.

extract longing; hold it. disclosure, full between your palms.

thought.

is abstract.

chase it.

the way you write.

poetry.

lines.

dividing line.

in two.

cross lines.

fold through.

like paper origami.

cut and hold.

a snowflake.

a real snowflake.

quick.

before it melts.

a passing glance.

hold it.

wait.

for the train.

abstract extract.

thought.

how did you get those scars?

(nietzche’s horse’s eyes pt. one)

cats and curling irons and accidents I say, rattling off excuses in a list three pages long when all I really want to say is knives and needles and scissors and my own two hands, I did this I did this I DID THIS LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME THAT THIS COULD BE ANYTHING BUT MAN MADE, ANYTHING BUT BROKEN AND ABUSED. THIS WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT AND NEITHER AM I- I CANNOT BE WASHED AWAY OR HIDDEN. LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME THAT YOU DO NOT SEE YOURSELF, REFLECTED IN THE BEAST WITHIN MY EYES.

sunday mourning

it sounds like a piece of poetry, the way my grandparents talk as we drive through what used to be a town and they point out things that used to be- there was a gas station, a store, a school, that used to be a drive in theatre and we’d go there on the weekends- there was a fire engine, remember? and all the kids would pile in and it’d take you for rides around town but with memory comes regret because then they say that they used to spray DDT, things to kill the mosquitos when really they were killing us and the conversation goes dark, quiet until we drive past the place where my grandmother used to live we have to stop, quiet for a second until she can talk because it was two years ago to this day (in May, the spring always was pretty) and she can smile for a second while she tries not to cry. you never really grow up unless you grow old and she feels so old, so alone even though we’re standing right next to her. my family has a history of mental illness and addictions, suicides and things we could never really escape. we drive around in this ghost of a town so nostalgic that it hurts and god, we’re all sick inside our minds. we can feel it in our bones.

Nietzsche’s horse’s eyes, pt. one

how did you get those scars?

cats and curling irons and accidents I say, rattling off excuses in a list three pages long when all I really want to say is knives and needles and scissors and my own two hands, I did this I did this I DID THIS LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME THAT THIS COULD BE ANYTHING BUT MAN MADE, ANYTHING BUT BROKEN AND ABUSED. THIS WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT AND NEITHER AM I- I CANNOT BE WASHED AWAY OR HIDDEN. LOOK AT ME AND TELL ME THAT YOU DO NOT SEE YOURSELF, REFLECTED IN THE BEAST WITHIN MY EYES.

mother, i am stupid

(nietzsche’s horse’s eyes pt. two) the eyes that reflected a field of fallen horses, the absent recognition of cruelty. the eyes like empty vacant houses and somewhere, quietly, a child calling out if anyone is home. the eyes that saw too much within the body that bore too much containing the mind that knew too much, that had to live with the knowing. look into the eyes of every victim and every animal and you will see the same dull resignation to a fate they think they deserve. the eyes turned blind, clouded with acceptance that has not been earned. with what else could we see kindness if not for the lack of it?