Synonyms For Destruction:

synonyms for destruction:

girl pretty face but sad eyes and you know she’s going to ruin you gently, but it hurts the way she tears you apart and picks out every thread as careful as when she sews you back together smile lopsided and wrong down to your bones. destruction does not come fast, is not easy. is quiet and gentle, pulling you apart the way the world ends- a collapse inward, broken doll on joints that could not stand folding, paper with edges creased and a note that says i love you as she makes and remakes you in the shape of her own destruction. just as she is yours. what beautiful creatures we must be, harbingers of ruination and makers of our own destruction.

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.

what kind of person are you?

he said what's wrong? i don't know, i'm just not much of a morning person. it's not the morning, he said gently. oh, well i suppose i'm not much of an afternoon person then either. but you're not a night person, he said. i know that much. well i'm not much of a person in general, i think.

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.

March 1862

your reality is determined by the length of your existence. think about it. when you are born, first, the world is white noise and loud colour vague abstract shapes that speak of a before. before your consciousness, in dark empty black, and you are shaped by the knowledge that there are things in the world much, much older and greater (although, perhaps, at this point you do not know the concept of time, of greater or less than. equality will come later, if you’re lucky.) as you grow so does your reality and all the things crammed into it places, people, faces, times, dates, appointments and things bound for forgetting. pinky promises, the day the Transcontinental Railroad was started, how many people died for freedom before it became something worth living for. places in a country that used to be far away but is now cut by great swathes of railroad, metal tracks crisscrossing like the intersection of thoughts. and if you tried, you could be there in five hours. that’s of course if you can afford it, something else that came along and changed you- flashlights, scattered flowers, and idle hands gone. no more shadows on the wall unless it’s you, late night backlight illumination with your head in your hands the art piece that humanity claims, calls it “a portrait of an ordinary person, work number #7581454” belonging to the collection of insanity. perhaps you could afford it, a one night vacation in Bangkok, Thailand, Paris, France, Salzburg, Germany, Austria, Vienna anywhere but here where the only display is a glass case you’re too tempted to break collections of moments, knickknacks, strands in time that cling to you like threads from the old shirt you used to wear because it matched your eyes. does it match them now, when you are old and reality has grown dim beyond the hazy spots you reach to see? metal tracks you walk along, one foot in front of the other, reciting dates and times and words in languages you cannot remember how to speak. the train’s coming and your reality is reduced down to what it was meant to be; a single spot, bright light tunnel vision against the sky. from start to end it tastes like hope, a journey from one end of the earth to the other. a railroad being built inside your mind.