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your spirit would still call for my ache

even as the pears have concaved

and the apples eaten by dust

time will still chew away and you

will still grip me down to bone

foam and crushing beneath the weight

of you have reached the end of the

message. call again and let it ring

let it run, ruin, and let it wrap

around Saturnina ㅡ girl next door

her laugh has bled through

and soaked my kitchen in green

and i do not clean up

what envy i have purged into the sink

she is there laughing and telling me that

your spirit has been through the ache

crushed concaves into my pears

and ate the dust like apples

chewing and staring down time

as it grips you down to foam

sea, breeze, and now ㅡ green.

it is 00.10 on a tuesday and unsurprisingly, i am empty. i've never been more exhausted, but everything in me is alert and on focus and high panic. i can't sleep. it's hard to stay asleep. i want to think that this is alright. my happiness waxes and wanes and rises and sinks; tides, moons, suns, bodies, breaths, all the same. comes and goes without need for input. i wish my sadness were as easily explained this way, that i can say it's rocks lining my stomach and chains pressed on my bones and i'll be satisfied with what i have said because it will have made things clearer. but it will not. and i am dreary. i don't know what i've been saying.

The problem is that if you admit homeless people aren't out to rob you, scam you, or simply assault you for no reason and are just people trying to get by as much as you you have to come face to face with the fact their living conditions are inhumane and they don't deserve this and so it's easier to pretend they're some sort of evil people who should stop existing

hey god, is it so hard to give me someone who puts the sway to my trees and the melodies to my throat, the creaks to my floorboards, the dances beneath my rain, the candle in my dark, the flight to my birds, the frost in my winters, the endings to what i start, the push for my starts, the flame on my stars, the blood in my heart?

valley

Breakage of an evening covers, covets half your face Gleaming peach and blushing cheeks Burning eyes and arteries

The snow becomes your shirt, folding into pockets first Boulder hands, frosted fingers Falling clouds on foggy whispers

I can find eternity stitched into your glassy lakes Hidden underneath the heavens Nesting September confessions

You could find a waltz between our rivers and our faults I could bend my brick for you Save a gaze and prayer or two

Tether all my beads of rain, sew them into your restraint This could gleam alive and mean Coming down our village dreams

“I’ve wanted to kill myself a hundred times, but somehow I am still in love with life.”

— Voltaire, Candide