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xylicyou used to tell me we're too young to be in love.
we're too young to lay so close that the bridges of our noses press together, so that our eyes blur into a smudge of iris and lashes and our senses are consumed with just each other. we're too young to understand what that means - to be consumed by one another. we're too young to breathe into each other's necks and feel as though that warmth is all there is left in the universe. to feel the fall away, to feel for a fleeting moment, without limit.
i think what you meant is we're too young to have that taken away.
we're too young to sleep alone, to know what it feels like when it hurts to smile. we're too young, too weak and too fragile to have our hearts broken. to have our entire worlds crumble at our feet and have to search through the rubble to find what's worth keeping, worth rebuilding.
but you know, i've fallen into my own grave too many times to care.
so when you tell me next, i will explain to you that if i was to die tomorrow,
alivei want to be buried in
a grave made of water
because i write poetry
but don't understand it
because i know how to feel
but not how to cope
or how to tell you what
it feels like to die
my mother will cry and
her garden will still grow
but she will not take down
photos on the windowsill
she will age dutifully and
retire, travel the world and
i will only regret not being
able to see her finally happy
my brother grow up without
knowing how much i cared
but he will still think
of me on his wedding day
his eyes will be a window
not to his soul, but a world
of pain and loss and he will
wish that i could say sorry
and the boy who knows that
he was the only one i loved;
he will lose himself in the
thought that he had the chance
to save a life, but didn't;
he will read my poetry and
not understand why but know
that i loved him more than life
i will fade to dirt, and from
me will grow a peach tree, with
the type of leaves that children
will make boats out of, sail
across their puddle oceans
keep me aliveswallowed in icy wind, you hide underneath a layer of milk skin dressed in goosebumps and your father's old jacket. you loved this place, once. now, listening through the wool of your jumper to the earth cry, it seems haunted, seems fleeting. it seems like something you should try to forget.
no, it is stitched with rusty needle and fraying thread to the linings of your heart. it is the warmth and the bad smell on your breath. it is the bleeding skin around your fingernails, it is the white blood cells that put it back together. this is the piece of your paper thin life that won't tear, won't yellow with age. this is the last drops of water held between cupped hands that cling to the grooves into your rough skin.
the grass sways with the trees and the white lines of rain in the sky, like a wheat field or a girl too drunk to dance, and against your ankles it feels like the eyelashes of those you've long forgotten and the way they used to trace your cheeks. yes, it is night and it is dark
you're more than methere is a whole universe laying in the empty space between your rib bones. and whole, ever-expanding, glittering universe.
in the quiet hours of the early morning, your arm resting beside mine, you told me about the sky. with words like the sun and the moon and the whole fucking phenomena of life itself, cigarette between your lips, you spoke as if you were talking to an empty room, syllables falling from the back of your throat into existence and then fading as fast as they were created. it was dark, but your eyes were open and i know it. you weren't looking at anything though, just the emptiness and the blue wash of my bedroom ceiling that in the deepest part of your existence, wasn't really a ceiling at all. it was the corners of our galaxy, and you were there, peeking out into the unknown. through the darkness, you found something there and you held onto it.
and god, i think you even smiled into that darkness. i wrapped myself around you, and wished on every star you could see i
the fall of winterthere is a full moon, haunted, hanging just above the clouds. kind of the like the pictures we used to draw when we were young; back when we all thought we were artists. at this time of night, i can't help but wonder if its the same face of the moon that watched you left.
but fuck, we're not artists any more are we?
and this full moon - it hangs over us.
it watches with wise eyes the fragility of your heart in my cupped hands, and it waits. and with weak shoulders, i watch too. time and time again in the dead of the night i watch the crashing of the white-tipped ocean over our naked bodies, clasped tightly together, and every night i wait.
but i know we do not resurface.
and, oh the moon. it waits, waits, waits.
while deep on the ocean's floor, light filtering through the near-black water down onto our faces, i watch you and you watch me. and we know that we failed.
but my dreams are not meaningful things to you, because my words have never moved you like music; never awed you like p
closurebukowski once said that the best often die by their own hand -
but you, i think you died at the hand of this world,
in all of its cruelty and darkness
i can't help but wonder if you were scared,
if your hands shook when you fell from this world into the next
i'd like to think though, that you were calm in your dark, concrete haven
that you closed your eyes unafraid
i'd like to think that there is a god -
a gentle hand that wrapped itself around your tired body
and that you were truly happy, where ever it is he took you
but for some reason, i think you're a bird
you'd make a beautiful bird.
i hope that my words, when you scribbled them down
in fury, in desperation, in a numb void
gave you at least a bit of comfort -
made you feel, even for a split second,
i will remember you by the mornings we spent together in the sun,
outside the grey lockers, legs outstretched and warm
and the smile you used to give the world when things were,
where did we goyour smile lingers like smoke; hovering gently in the corners of my eyes where everything gets a bit blurry
reminders of our love shared between small smiles and bitten lips and everything else wait for me in the night -
lay waiting between dirty sheets, plaited into the steam of my shower
and you look at me, now, with eyes that tell the sad story
of two broken people
just trying to fix themselves
and i realise that maybe
we are just passing hands, lingering for slightly too long
as the feeling of gentle fingertips caressing is absorbed -
the feeling of knowing that there is something out there
something worth our time
rememberingit never rains
for the sky only weeps
it cries softly;
i have missed
your face in the dark
it is wrong, though
to lay in your bed
i am digging
my own grave
but this grave
i know, has always
a story about a broken heartyou called the other day, just to talk.
you were talking about your physics teacher, or something like that,
but all i could hear was 'i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry'
i'm sorry for hugging you so tightly when i last left,
and i'm sorry for taking your heart with me.
i'm sorry that my voice still sounds the same -
the same voice i would send you to sleep with at night.
i'm sorry i can't look away when you talk,
because i can't let go.
i am sorry for telling you lies,
even if i meant them at the time.
i am sorry that we have nothing in common anymore,
and that i can't make you laugh.
and you were talking about your physics teacher, or something like that,
and i was crying.
i don't think i can forgive you.
on leaving it behindi still
this might appall you
or agonize you but i do.
i remember still evenings
with little to exchange besides
heartbeats and breathing patterns.
i remember soft afternoons
with my back raking against the carpet
leaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.
i remember dark roads, and darker rains.
i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.
the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,
but they ache and the few times i hear your voice
wedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cake
of neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation in
the small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for your
breath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,
and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.
you would finger fuck me in the movie theater
and i would squirm and you would laugh because
i am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would take
was a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under my
teeth and your eyes would
if you're an ocean, then i'm drowning.You are a calculated mistake
something that I've known is wrong from the very start. And I wake up next to you every morning lately, praying that your split lips don't sink me even though I know it's too late.
You're already taking me under, because, baby
you're heavy like hurricane. Like a thousand drops of rain pounding down on my shoulder blades. You're seeping into my skin and into my bloodstream. It's only a matter of time until you spread to my heart.
It's too late. I'm already drowning in you.
It's too late, but god, I cannot love you.
You're like the last boy I kissed
which means I should already be working on forgetting the exact way your fingertips press into my hipbones or how my name sounds curled up in your mouth and the way you like to speak it so careful like a secret like if you said it too loud, I could get away from you. Like you want to keep me. But mostly I should forget you.
And sometimes, I try, but right now, I'm calculating the
on telescopesyour world was small.
fit in the tiny
crook of your elbow
and where would the
where would it go?
your moon was untethered.
your Earth was ungrounded
and could i
be the prayer to your sex?
could i get on my knees
and fill my mouth with your ecs-
tasy, i mean redemption, and i mean empty-
and your world had been reckoned.
you had fucked and unfucked
and i was your champion.
on being free, chained, and whatever's in betweenhey, it's me. it's christmas eve. and well i know you know that, but i feel like if you save this message, it will be important to know that it's christmas eve or something. i'm alone and it's christmas eve. all i can do is move the way the music moves me and i feel like i need to be oiled. i'm not moving the way i want to be moved. i'm not really saying i need to be fucked or anything i just need a body to remind me what joints do. or i mean how they're supposed to feel. something like that. i don't even want to be in love. i don't love you anymore. i don't know who you are. i knew you once in the summer and in the fall and in the winter and in the spring and in the summer again and a little in the fall too. i knew that you were an untameable fire on a rampage but i did not expect you to burn your own body and you burned me too i'm not even sad i'm just so mad at you i'm so mad at you and i'm a little drunk and i'm a little fucked up and i'm not even sad i swear to you i'm not sad.
small musingpeople are always so
sad about caged birds
the fish in the bowl?
the nature of the soul?
the arrow and the bow?
the turtle, a slave to his shell
never running, always hiding-
walls, small devils and taut strings.
i am not so sad about the bird
in the cage.
what i am most sad about is
the look on my own face when i heard
you said you wanted me out
of your life for good.
i am a slave to old
grudges and i am
too proud to
on hindsightif you would have told me
i will love you conditionally,
when i am feeling good, but not too good
because when i feel my very best i will
not need you, when i am feeling bad,
but not too bad because at my very worst
i will hate you.
i will stand with you provisionally,
so long as i do not have to stand very long
and i can take breaks from you as i please-
i will look into you tentatively
and reach the decision that i am better than you,
that you are one big fucking joke, that i have
a higher calling to marijuana and making
temporary homes inside of nice, but stupid
if you had told me that now when we talk
it's only because you want to know who i'm fucking
and where i'm at and what i'm doing not because
you care about me, but because somewhere in the
back of your mind you claimed me and even though
you are not stepping up to fill your position as
high conqueror of my cunt, you expect me not
to look for satisfaction elsewhere.
if you had told me that i would waste the past few m
on skimming the surfacedear ex-lovers,
dear ex-friends, dear little brother,
i have taken all the posters down and my room is a skeleton.
i wonder why you are sad and i am not.
i have taken time and care to grow into these walls
to plant memories here, first fuck
first sleepless night, first question of suicide,
i have collected bones-
here see them in my closet-
i have broken them all.
love was not strong enough to keep me here,
and love is not strong enough, after
vacantyou became the sea
dark and deep you were,
ferocious monster. your
surface glowing red and
orange against the dark
horizon, you sigh, slow
waves gently caressing
the skin of the earth
small lives were lived
within yours; laughing,
you carry the ashes of
the dead, and the eyes
of the young. as you go
on, and on, and on, we
sit quietly and watch
as you tear at the seams
of this earth, untamed
snarls ripping at our
feet, your white bubbles
brining home those who
were gone, and stealing
those who were never lost
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