| all the lonely people can go.
Let's make one. Who's in? |
| |
| The damage cannot be reversed. We don't trust and without that, anything real would fall through.
So we fake reality.
We play pretend. We put on a show.
His parents don't know. He hasn't told them.
He keeps my pictures up.
He's less of an animal than I am. He still has a heart.
I threw mine out on the highway,
thinking good riddance.
My chest cavity feels better, lighter. Less weight.
Pretending is lighter than real life.
I don't have to put up walls for protection
because everything now is only paper thin.
We're paper thin.
So we press our lips together, manage smiles,
joke about the things that stab through us
like needles and knives, because none of this is real.
And I think we were meant to be, maybe, like he said
he thought, but we ruined it.
As long as we can remember, we won't make it.
We ruined ourselves. We broke our hearts.
We're no longer the right people.
So, if something happens, if a specific question is raised,
I'll drown our paper town
and watch our words and pictures, or rather maps, bleed like ink.
I've drowned us out. Farewell,
not that I hope you fare well.
Hello December, |
| |
| 
As of yesterday
morning,
my best friend
became
just another liar,
who broke my heart
with stand-still
silence,
whom I never wish
to speak to again.
As of now,
I fold my cards,
hands full of paper cuts,
and walk out the door,
closing it behind me
hoping a draft
will blow the (card)house down.
|
| |
| Your heartbeat is inaudible.
And so is the ocean,
when I'm putting my ear to your chest,
when I'm putting seashells to my ear.
Because I know better.
And everything feels like pulling teeth
and splinters and clenched fists
with us.
We are the kind of dark eyes don't adjust to.
And we keep crashing into each other,
Like waves.
And I know that I know better,
but my eyes sting with saltwater
and I swear I can taste the ocean.
|
| |
| She tells me her mantra is 2 months. Mine too.
Everybody's leaving. Or getting left.
I'm not eating enough.
I'm not sleeping enough.
I'm not writing enough.
And
I'm thinking too much.
I drank too much.
And we fight too much.
But I'm getting ahead.
|
| |
