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Description
i.
and so begins another, written with a shaky hand. the snow is on the ground, the plasic icicles are on the gutters, and the nicotine has settled in my blood (for today, at least). i am ready for another winter of harsh realizations and slow naivety.

upon a hot press board, blues and reds (and white to soften) settle in. i think to myself that i should've stayed in bed this morning, kept warm under the safety-weight of blankets and pillows with a boy at my side and sleep in my eyes.

and i think it would be so much easier to accept the brutalities of war, to pretend he had no choice, than to make myself believe he chose to go. an empty bed does not mean an empty head, and i am doubled over in a sad attempt to make myself remember.

don't believe in anything or you'll believe in everything. love is just a passerby, an unfamiliar pretty face in a crowd of unforgiving mouths with december frost slipping out. try to overcome your doubt that everything happens for a reason (you chose this cardboard box, and now you have to sleep in it). we're getting twelve inches tonight-- be careful if you go out.

so i write, and i lie, and two become the same, until i meet a pretty voice who can give my words some name. while it's true that he'll return (given months of pity and reknown), it doesn't change the simple fact that again,

i am alone.

ii.
give yourself a face to match the dreams (and nightmares, so to speak), doused in perfume and tickled a sickening peppermint sweet. a penny for your thoughts, a nickel every memory lost, drenched in warm red liquor as your bones and liver rot.

so sideways, you decide to face the board your head is on, so long as the snow is falling and the green of grass is gone. and tired, you lift lead feet to tread bottomless grey waters with worry in your head.

soften up and take the sail that billows in the wind, and trade your bloated body for a lighter one instead.

iii.
and it was just like that. quicksnap up and thrusted into a life of full throttle, pedal-to-the-metal, eyes-are-rolling back kind of thing. not something real but cloud-like and somber. but visible, in sundays best reflected in a looking glass. as good as gone. you can't humiliate the living dead.

iv.
death, to me, was a quiet kind of magnetic pain, attached at the knees and later, the throat, when it was no longer relaxed enough to come slowly and pull apart.

half the time, people question my sanity, and the other half of the time, people look up to me and admire me for it, but they really shouldn't. it's a terrible habit and it's ruining my life.

take me back to a time of climbing into a teal paddleboat with my best friend. take me back to murky lake water-- it smelled so much better than clean-- and clamoring for clams in the clay.

adam's mom broke one open once, so we could look inside. the smell was horrid and the putrid thing rotted among the bayrocks for days. eventually the ants and gulls got to it, but not before we had seen it's insides.

grey, bloodless guts leaking out it's mouth. well, what we thought was its mouth but was also it's eyes and it's asshole. it was ugly, so we left it there to rot. the bloodless smell hung in the air for days after it was gone, but i've had a problem with death ever since.

v.
impossible to forget, the squares on the wall. crossed off, one by one, the days (we'll just take things easy). give me back the night i could lay in my bed and feel my heart flutter for the morning. lay me back, and let me remember (once something's gone, it's gone forever).

now the squares on my wall are full of sex and smoking in sectioned diners. we sit there for hours, but the piles of food never get any smaller.

the only thing i have ever loved. dead.

vi.
a song would be written of you, and you'd never know. for what you've done and for what i've fabricated, but we both know our pain was worth a hit.

and that could be taken by surprise, or in a literal sense.

songs are just as easy to fall from your fingertips as smiles are from other lips. who are you to say no to me? could you just one night be something more than a sickle shaped moon, clipped wings of a paper plane, or the crumpled skin of an oragami?

vii.
she bowed, to my dismay, curtsied to my disapproval, and whispered her infatuations with criminals-- murder ran through her blood, like tendril vines.

keeping hold of her coiterie close, but her counterparts quicker, quiet dew screams, "serial killers, for the most part, are made, not born. they develop over time. they are likely to choose victims that have some symbolic value to them."

i told her, "you should elaborate, once you can bring yourself to accept your nerves."

iix.
lost you and all the worry in the world. so you sing and you speak as the odometer turns and the gasoline leaks, and i've got nothing left to worry about. no love or courage left to seek. no, it's disappeared, but not the proof, or makeup on your pillows and city light shows from the roof.

you're so accepting, you're so pristine. by the time the snow dries up, you'll have forgotten what forever means.

Description
i.
and so begins another, written with a shaky hand. the snow is on the ground, the plasic icicles are on the gutters, and the nicotine has settled in my blood (for today, at least). i am ready for another winter of harsh realizations and slow naivety.

upon a hot press board, blues and reds (and white to soften) settle in. i think to myself that i should've stayed in bed this morning, kept warm under the safety-weight of blankets and pillows with a boy at my side and sleep in my eyes.

and i think it would be so much easier to accept the brutalities of war, to pretend he had no choice, than to make myself believe he chose to go. an empty bed does not mean an empty head, and i am doubled over in a sad attempt to make myself remember.

don't believe in anything or you'll believe in everything. love is just a passerby, an unfamiliar pretty face in a crowd of unforgiving mouths with december frost slipping out. try to overcome your doubt that everything happens for a reason (you chose this cardboard box, and now you have to sleep in it). we're getting twelve inches tonight-- be careful if you go out.

so i write, and i lie, and two become the same, until i meet a pretty voice who can give my words some name. while it's true that he'll return (given months of pity and reknown), it doesn't change the simple fact that again,

i am alone.

ii.
give yourself a face to match the dreams (and nightmares, so to speak), doused in perfume and tickled a sickening peppermint sweet. a penny for your thoughts, a nickel every memory lost, drenched in warm red liquor as your bones and liver rot.

so sideways, you decide to face the board your head is on, so long as the snow is falling and the green of grass is gone. and tired, you lift lead feet to tread bottomless grey waters with worry in your head.

soften up and take the sail that billows in the wind, and trade your bloated body for a lighter one instead.

iii.
and it was just like that. quicksnap up and thrusted into a life of full throttle, pedal-to-the-metal, eyes-are-rolling back kind of thing. not something real but cloud-like and somber. but visible, in sundays best reflected in a looking glass. as good as gone. you can't humiliate the living dead.

iv.
death, to me, was a quiet kind of magnetic pain, attached at the knees and later, the throat, when it was no longer relaxed enough to come slowly and pull apart.

half the time, people question my sanity, and the other half of the time, people look up to me and admire me for it, but they really shouldn't. it's a terrible habit and it's ruining my life.

take me back to a time of climbing into a teal paddleboat with my best friend. take me back to murky lake water-- it smelled so much better than clean-- and clamoring for clams in the clay.

adam's mom broke one open once, so we could look inside. the smell was horrid and the putrid thing rotted among the bayrocks for days. eventually the ants and gulls got to it, but not before we had seen it's insides.

grey, bloodless guts leaking out it's mouth. well, what we thought was its mouth but was also it's eyes and it's asshole. it was ugly, so we left it there to rot. the bloodless smell hung in the air for days after it was gone, but i've had a problem with death ever since.

v.
impossible to forget, the squares on the wall. crossed off, one by one, the days (we'll just take things easy). give me back the night i could lay in my bed and feel my heart flutter for the morning. lay me back, and let me remember (once something's gone, it's gone forever).

now the squares on my wall are full of sex and smoking in sectioned diners. we sit there for hours, but the piles of food never get any smaller.

the only thing i have ever loved. dead.

vi.
a song would be written of you, and you'd never know. for what you've done and for what i've fabricated, but we both know our pain was worth a hit.

and that could be taken by surprise, or in a literal sense.

songs are just as easy to fall from your fingertips as smiles are from other lips. who are you to say no to me? could you just one night be something more than a sickle shaped moon, clipped wings of a paper plane, or the crumpled skin of an oragami?

vii.
she bowed, to my dismay, curtsied to my disapproval, and whispered her infatuations with criminals-- murder ran through her blood, like tendril vines.

keeping hold of her coiterie close, but her counterparts quicker, quiet dew screams, "serial killers, for the most part, are made, not born. they develop over time. they are likely to choose victims that have some symbolic value to them."

i told her, "you should elaborate, once you can bring yourself to accept your nerves."

iix.
lost you and all the worry in the world. so you sing and you speak as the odometer turns and the gasoline leaks, and i've got nothing left to worry about. no love or courage left to seek. no, it's disappeared, but not the proof, or makeup on your pillows and city light shows from the roof.

you're so accepting, you're so pristine. by the time the snow dries up, you'll have forgotten what forever means.