We Live And Breathe Words

we live and breathe words

i’m overcompensating for forgetting to breathe                               by writing too many words

and trying to make them sound poetic when really there’s no artistic way to say

i woke up one morning and drank bleach just to see how it tasted and bled out

in a bathtub dying a thousand little deaths every time i breathed in

so you could imagine how it feels to be told you’re writing too many words

when all you’re trying to do is remember how it felt to have air in your lungs,

what it tasted like instead of the blood that you vomited all along the white tiles.

It’s the easiest way of writing there’s a rhythm, there’s a beat. Poetry is like dancing; you just follow your feet.

cityskylinesofimaginaryplaces, excerpt from ‘follow my feet (and they will guide you home)’ (via wnq-writers)

the bruises on my hips are shaped like handprints, five fingers across purplish skin.

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, claiming to have some sort of ownership of my body. I am not yours. not yours, not yours, not yours I want to scream over and over until everyone stops looking at my body, what is meant to be mine stops seeing the pretty and thinking that I’d be nice to own. I am not made for you. not made for toying, dirty hands in wrong places not made to be held, I made sure of that. once, someone took my stained glass mosaic, my cathedral windows inside me of what was sacred and shattered it- I made sure the edges stayed sharp. You will not touch me. you do not have the right to think you own me, no right to ask questions and tell me what I am supposed to do with what was given to me, what is mine. What I mean: Mine. What I say: Mine. no means no and god I wish someone had taught all of you that but instead there’s this disconnect where I don’t own myself so now I have bruises, hands around my waist and it burns. There is a fire burning, embers smothered somewhere inside me where those hands laid waste to what was me. i hope it burns you if you ever dare think about it- know that you will not be saved. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on claiming to own me. I am not yours and I will never be.

pronouns

“they” is not always plural and “fae” is not reserved for faeries. they can be one person, rainbow hair and blue eyes. they can mean masculine and feminine and something indescribable, somewhere between hard and soft without falling in the lines. take everything you thought you knew and throw it back in the box it came from because there is no male, no female, no boundaries or lines of who you are and how you love. they are singular and a singularity, black hole void of all and containing everything because everyone always knew it wasn’t the light it was the dark spaces in between that drew you in. they are an adventure, something taunting when you dare to look them in the eye; something wild, neon and loud that can’t be hidden. some back-street club, quiet coffee shop, promises of laughter and red lips. chocolate and whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles and sitting in an ice cream parlour two blocks down from their street. sundaes with a cherry on top. friendship, bottled and sold a dime a dozen but that doesn’t make it (them) any less sweet.

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.

war is just a violent euthanasia

lay me to sleep with your eyes like minefields and blood painting the grass red. behind those gun barrels are mother's children and father's sons, daughters, men and women. shoot to kill and wait until you see the whites of their eyes, the explosions behind their eyelids on the islands of violence because the war you fight outside is exactly the same as you fight on the inside- guns don't kill people people kill people and people kill themselves, blow their brains to bits on the walls behind them because they can't stand the walls inside them. war is not courageous and it must always be done out of sight or else everyone might see the truth that every gun hides a person dying on the inside and every bullet you fire has been on its way since the moment you were born, the moment you began to survive. you were born to survive and made into existence, a creation of suffering and torment in the way that the only way you can survive is by killing someone else. how do you live with yourself? you don't. too many guns and too many knives, so much pain hidden on the inside. guns were made to kill but please, not you. please, God, not you.