wake up and smell the thorns.
you're not your job.
you're not how much money you have in the bank.
you're not the car you drive.
you're not the contents of your wallet.
you're not your fucking khakis.
you're the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world.
-
open your eyes, rainbow.
the world is full of shades of grey and bruises and hate and no one can see it but me.
its not fair, water- its not fair.
the world is damp and wet and we pretend to be dry, like
nothing penetrates our skin. well it does. it fucking does.
everything does.
now things are just like they used to be after the good and
before it started again and we all know it.
we all, fucking know it.
(my secret tears finally showed up.)
-
the world is full of things that have been
lost, loved and discarded-
like my 4th valentines day card to you and old hairbands and my smile.
now, none of them exist.
"do you think broken spines can heal?" i asked you in that field outside of the house that one spring.
"everyone knows that if spines are broken you stay paralyzed." you replied.
"but with enough love, and praying to whoever listens, dont you think its possible?" i asked, begged.
"its not possible." you said.
you broke my back- time and time and time again
and my vertabrate riped my skin into pretty cross stitch patterns.
you were right,
i cant seem to move on.
-
we picked roses out of alleyways with scales covering spikes
all over our backs- making us hunched over, and tired.
they kept people away- and all we really needed were touches holding
hearts holding secrets whispered late at night in
between kisses.
we gave our roses to anyone who would take them,
each and every one screaming "the world is beautiful, love. wake up and smell the roses."
wake up, and smell the fucking roses.
(who knew such pretty things could tell such terrible lies.)
-
we count our wins and losses like we
count grey hairs and road signs and freckles and
pretend they dont mean anything, but you and i
both know that you count us a loss- and we'll never
win.
im sorry, for making you a failure.
-
these days, i find myself very, very unhappy.
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Author's Comments
oh, you wanted to see me, sir?
why yes, i did. well what did you want, sir? your soul, love. just your soul. |
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Comments
--
eat the children
i love the world.
--
oh, dear.
--
a n d a l l i n t h e c o l d l i g h t o f m o r n i n g
i always wonder if it was a typo,
or if you are so good with words my stomach feels sick thinking about you.
[fuck rom coms,
i think i have a fucking museum of butterflies in there.]
--
oh, dear.
--
oh, dear.
and this
--
It’s a bit hard to love me when you’re dead.
--
oh, dear.
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