americasboy
i feel like i have opened my body and light is filtering out. i am dancing round a lightbulb because it is night time outside. i will only live for 24 hours and i think it is obvious that the colour is rubbing from my wings. i left traces of it on your cheek whilst you were sleeping. will you look in the mirror today?
I haven't got a colour I want to write today, apart from the yellow spilling from a smile.
I felt like the sun was not able to accommodate me anymore, the apocalypse which happened in my stomach with the last glare from his eyes, bleeding into me an anger I had never thought could exist inside a human. Animals were placid but would not meet my eyes. I wish I could write.
my mother's limbs are sundials and her hands are compasses pointing always towards the colour of springtime. I am not water, and I wonder how it and mirrors can be seen as colours, especially in fun-houses when all concept of time and personhood become mangled and distorted.
I do not like this word either because this illness is real to me.
I cannot believe you when you tell me you have touched the sky, and that your pockets are lined with stars which you caught with a butterfly net. If you brought me the moon, I would probably laugh. Hysteria is overwhelming, and sometimes, so are your fantasies.
I am thinking about bad music, the electrim beats of an imagined drum and how we seek music to fill holes in our bodies which we imagine ourselves, these imagined sounds filling imagined places with imagined synthesis. I feel cathartic today with how much and how little I find myself in, and watching you drive your car south, in the opposite direction of this girl I am with snow skin and a penchant for tucking herself into mountains.
we play out like a trumpet, along the beach, muggy, with our hair sticking to our foreheads like tassels and press our ears to the conches, listening for answers but only hearing the blood in our own ears. I do not like to write as a 'we' anymore, but I do not believe in individualism. I am in a weird place.
sometimes i wonder where a sense of belonging arises. i am the colour of your palms when i see you, it fills my cheeks how vibrant your movements are when you do not see me. i fade into a part of the tree bark.
i find myself laid out, piece by piece, as if you are my engineer and i am the pieces of a satellite. there is something pulling on my left arm, as if you have tied something to me, so i cannot float away. but the clouds pull farther and i split in half.
i did not cut myself in half today, i fingered the scissors in the draw for a little while and imagined myself unfurling like a new kitten, or a yarn, or my organs unravelling like tiny sleeves of a whale's childhood jumper. i am comfortable in your womb, a scarf which wraps around me.
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writing since 2012 · 39 entries · 39 days shown up
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