saskia
Didn't you know
that mountains are formed
by plates pressing against another
so forcibly
so hurtfully
they push up the crust of the earth
to make
you. You with
your weathered arms
and tired tired
eyes - those cheeks
don't soften
like they used to.
You are not broken,
my dear, you are breaking.
Breaking
into mountains bigger
than anyone else.
I left the bathroom, making sure
there was no trail of paper cut
eyes trailing behind me,
and I met her. She,
whose hair looked like it suffocated
fires and whose great palms
could clench a can
together, so easily. She
whose good graces
I wanted to fall into, whose
charm under smoke exhilarated me
What lipstick colour are you wearing?
She liked it,
thought it looked like summer.
It's my teeth, I said.
I bight them so sometimes
it hurts to brush them. I had never
told anyone that.
I wish I could seek you out, and fuse together are existence. I'd break my bones and place them in yours, crack my ribs and re-arrange them in absolute forms with yours, in hopes that they may fit softer. I can't obey what my mind pulses in itself. You are evil, you are horrid, you are awful. But you are, and that is beautiful. Your long legs twist like spiders around humans and grasp them in their shadows while you take all that they have. You are evil. But i'd break this hold the world has of your voice and shake it. My voice is shaking and I can feel heart dying. But it dies for you. Does evil exist? Or is it just a point of view? I hate myself for loving you but I can forgive my oblivion. It dies for and all you can do is ignore the rhythm and dance to it's plea, yet you are still what I hold the dearest in the horrible world.
The flare of the match lit up his eyes, and she could see the crinkle between them. The flare of the match showed the anger in his hands, and she could see the power in his fists. She sat and watched is face turn emotions, just waiting for him to speak. He lit embers into into fire and watched them slowly destruct the room, just waiting on her to give up on him. He was angry at the world and he was fighting himself. He was torn in two and he could not decide which was worse. He did not have the capability of just being, his mess was slowly corroding his mind. So he just sat in a room and lit up matches watching them all die out.
I remember when I you told me all the things you thought about this world, and I could see there was a universe inside of you. We're all universes, black masses and hidden spaces, but you, your stars were dying and fading into but planets. And I could see that. So I told you the things you wanted to hear, in and out came these words, in and out, but they meant nothing to me. You were fading and showing it, no longer masking your eyes that flickered as each electric nerve in your brain died. I told you the things you wanted to hear, and I hoped it helped, but they were not the truth. They weren't what you had to hear. I am a satellite, I float and never land and can't feel right in the place that I am. The truth is, no matter where you are it's the wrong place. But I tore up these tiny hearts for you, and tore up my words.
The sun shone through the pollution in the air and we kept hold of that moment because we knew that once I left we would find no other that held captive these same fears. So take my words and let them not go useless. Take them and try your best to believe in them.
The last man left on on earth sat alone in a room. He sat on a wooden crate that creaked under his frail matter, creaking with each breath. His lungs were filled with dust that made him choke with each rise of his chest. His skin clung horribly close to his bones, so he had tried his best to ink his bones with something great. In the end, that's all that's left of us, bones caked in soil. He fought his fight and held on dearly to his world, yet his life was not great without any other presence except for space. He liked the silence, the constant chatter of humans made him grow mad, but the vast space of nothing made him insecure. The last man on earth sat alone in a room. A room of destruction and horrible remains. Past the silence, he heard a knock on the door.
In oblivion, everything is great. In reality, nothing is so. But the truth is, no one wants reality. Soon fires will spread as masked faces riot through her core. The quiet will be no more as the crown less take the King. From the shadows are fire will be fed, and an inferno will devour our minds. The King is dead.
They say the captain goes down with his ship, so will we go down with our world? And what will happen, when there's nothing left. Just static. Just space. Empty space. We are the same decomposing organic matter as the earth, we all rot. In oblivion, we are immortal. In reality, we all die. It's easy to see why most choose not to live in this reality.
Charcoal lined her palms and spread into it's creases. A black dusk slowly eating away at her hands, he hands that she needed to create her immortality. The world is quiet here, in the solitude of a room that was built by paintings. Not pretty paintings, not clever paintings, but awful paintings. She drew her mind.
I loved her so, with the brick beating in the cavity between my ribs, I loved her. But I am not brave anymore darling, I am broken. They have broken me. I fell in love with her silence, and her touch, and it is these things i believed in even if the world indulged in suspicion that she isn't all she should be. I loved her, and that was the beginning of my end. She is the darkness, while I am nothing. She is greatness, while I am nothing. She is has become immortal, while I am nothing.
Facing the mirror he would stand, bare and naked, scrutinizing his own self. He'd look at his flesh and find cuts, look at his hands and feel the hard skin, stare at his face and find eyes that were bland. He's beginning to hate himself. He'd feel cold in the winter air as he stood facing that mirror, then he'd turn round and be confronted by all the pictures on the wall. This room is an image of him. His life in on that wall. He's beginning to hate it. Slowly he starts to take each picture, playing them in a grave under his bed. Behind each frame is whiter patch of wall that the rest. And soon, that's all he'll have. A wall of dust with white patches, while his old self in buried under his bed. This is his beginning.
One looked like a man bending over a silhouette, a body maybe? Either way all he say was a death. The other looked like a butterfly, but it's wings were clipped as if it itself gnawed them off. Print after print he was shown. And all he saw in these manifested blotches was chaos and static and horrible things, oh such horrible things. This is what his mind in. This is what he is. This is what we're afraid of. And he knows this. So he cleverly tells others what they see, but in his mind he chuckles at the fickel matter of what we are. He is more. He is a blackness that sweeps over and makes you nothing, for only after you've lost everything are you free to do anything.
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