i want to live.
i want to take the world in, bit by bit.
the heart wrenching truth about this is that i only exist.
i only walk about, more mind than soul.
more talk than feel.
but i want to be so much more.
i want to be a reason to be happy.
i want to be all the wonderful things like daisies
and summer night skies and constellations and a good read and
fairytales and magic and daydreams and heart-shaped candies
i want to be colors so bright they almost break hearts.
i want to trace your thighs to your lips to your thoughts
to the time you first kissed me to when you made me feel complete
to the first time you put your hand up my skirt and felt the scars,
and unveiled what i hid myself in
to tell me i don’t just talk pretty,
to tell me i’m the prettiest.
to tell me you wanted
more than my heart.
to tell me you wanted more than just forever.
you said “you always take me to paradise.”
you said “we’re two sad people in love.”
i believe we are whole, eventually.
i believe all the sad things are needed to keep me interested.
someone asked me to describe you to which i said “i cannot.”
i can say you smell like the softest entropy.
i can say you make me weak.
i can say that when i’m with you, time doesn’t fly
and laws of physics don’t exist.
we’re just a little bit bigger than infinity tonight.
my mind has always been in contradiction with what’s real,
and i’d lie to keep myself safe.
but i need something to give life to these words,
and make them look less of a page.
everything fake is said to unfold and dismount, so
“wait in line” he said, as i reached hell’s gate.
but it’s less of a gate, less of a way,
more of a path to daybreak.
what i mean is break, for the already broken,
for the thoughtless freak-show we portray.
everyday, all the time,
in literally every poem,
i’m pretending so maybe i’d be real someday.
but what’s real to me is not real to you,
which is why i turn to lying,
lying or lying dead or lying life or just lying.
or lying dead or lying wake or lying while i’m dying.
it’s lying one too many times that becomes the truth.
a truth isn’t true, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.
but what’s true to me, isn’t true to you,
it isn’t even true to itself,
which makes the truth a bigger liar than a lie in itself.
think about it, feel it. feel your eyes bleed while you’re at it.
taste the blood, and the salt,
and the failure it brings.
feel the walls move in on you, no open-spaces exist.
feel your brain bang against the cavity of your skull,
dying to be anywhere else.
feel the urge to rip apart your chest and try to grab
at your heart, because you need to stop it from keeping
feel the skin you tear off, the flesh stuck in your nails.
feel the fear of it not working because this nightmare is not in you,
it is you.