decadent-delirium

Hello. This is not a confession or a memoir of my life; I have no need for those. This is an autopsy of a personality, peeling apart incisions and wounds to diagnose the cause of death. This is me, at the end, trying to understand the beginning; this is me telling my story so someone can maybe understand. I am writing this in a yellowing room stuck in a decaying corner of town. The mattress is lumpy, molded through the years by the doughy lines of a single pronation, the carpet is patchy and threadbare, and light slips in through the corners of the blinds, twisting into crooked stripes on the floor. I have lived here for years; my sweat i

you still know the words to make my heart a hundred pounds. i weigh too much and i move too slow all the time until you make the word mine light up on our stage and then i am too hungry i am all ravenous clawing for more and more of your words and casual murder. i need how you dispense nuggets of what i mean to you - i can sit and chew puzzle pieces that don't match you to me. i am restless - nine-thirty means our words are about to die away as you begin to dream of going home to someone else. but this is only if we had words and not just bottles of vodka miles away. i think my heart is corrosive. we are starting ove

Shyness is the most beautiful thing. If I was a cat and had nine lives, I would come back to you every time. So kiss me like you mean it; it only takes one look in your eyes for our mouths to meet. everytime. This is the end of our lives. This is time to grow up And realize that beautiful is not A dirty kiss in a clandestine corner Nor am I only a piece of nothing in your pocket nestled in between cigarettes and switchblades The feeling of my chin on your shoulderblade is not so soft anymore. She looks like the saddest girl ever to hold a martini. There is magic and richness in the cream of a blank page And there is both no

Because when I think of poetry, I think of you. Ever since you took my words and slammed them against the wall, I have not known what to write. I am sitting here dreaming of crawling up and pressing my mouth against your ribcage and asking for my lungs back, please I would like to take your smile and slam it against the sun, then write you the raindrops again Sometimes I am asking for a reason to breathe But if you still have an answer for me It is hidden farther than I can see Into your mosaic eyes And I would like to peel your skin back now And whisper, what have we become? But you still would have no words for me Save fo

If I could pinpoint the exact moment when my heart gave way to pressure and erupted, the empty space inside my ribs pushing angrily at my lungs, I would trace it back to that afternoon, sitting in the cafe with him, saying our goodbyes again. He was watching me intently as I sipped an overpriced frappucino, and I glued my eyes to the window, trying to look at the glass and not through it, and trying not to look at him looking at me.                                                         (I'd missed him looking at me like that so much.)                 I brushed my hair back and rubbed my eyes; did I look okay? "You look perfect," he said,

There are too many ghosts in the rain. Someone calls - splashes - the words fade away And figures rise, in pearl drops Running and living like we used to, Our desperation the colour Of dreams exposed to sunlight.          We still knew then          The meaning of laughter in sunshine. But now the gentle chatter Of raindrops on my window Is the silence of my telephone And empty voices mouthing - do you remember when? I don't dream as much when the sky is clear We never had those kinds of memories. Watching puddles form faces I can almost see       Two months ago, last year, days I don't know when - resurrected Rain, rain, g

Our names are dirty secrets now Choked through grudging mouths And hidden in dusty corners We avert our eyes To make believe                 I never knew you loved linoleum Shy red cheeks With shame inflamed Mumbling, marble-mouthed                 You didn't even hear me say - We can pretend It never happened    I can hear the whisper                         of shyness                         grown                         to anger                         and vice                         versa. I can feel you strain To pretend your ears are deaf                  You are passion when I laugh And your fingers brush Your ha