these are all separate pieces
hearts on wings, wings in tombs. hey, we’re buried in here. they have not been bleeding long enough to know its impact. hope to god that I won’t have to know. note to self: I remember “I’m half the shell now, but double the fun” does it die any quicker than this? isn’t it supposed to? harvest it.won’t the sequel inform the war happening outside, outside as nothing. I’ll get ready when you tell me what to love.
it’s gone, the part that’s severed, that I’m better off without. but it’s grown a reputation of its own which I salute before it shrivels up and dies. but it clones me while we live. i will tear out its roots. i have given it life and will burn it to the ground.
city streets, keep me from my feet. blur my reality to sew both eyes shut. I don’t need to remember how locked in feels, just that it felt. heaven felt the same in her arms. vulnerability- is this what you’re offering. no love, no hope.
please quit asking me to turn around. I will break my neck. I will go blind. p.s. I believe whatever I see back here.
different colored suits that stand side to side are painting portraits of a uniformly boring sky. now they’ve dropped the goddamn ball. look, now they’re rebuilding from the lungs out. now they make themselves known.
they yearn for love and for war. fickle candle light hope, sliding and shifting, evoking every scar, which in turn reminds me of what the axis was like when I could still maintain it. honestly, I can’t even miss it.
the skies in this world are stained by black news bearing clouds. they’ve restrained themselves from self restraint, parade each of our hearts as if it were the essential idea behind each cause. but it is and now we’re without a leader, all causee and no action. what will it take for me to pick apart their culture and restructure it? and by means of destroying what I have created, I have rebuilt the sky. I have eliminated the shallowness of their sun.
dear allegedly existing heart, if you are solely responsible for the repeated, even-beat-when-healthy process in which lungs can function properly, why do they staple malfunction to you, in spite of the fact that I am standing on my own two feet and fighting everything in front of me. is it possible I don’t even need you?
no amount of solid concrete ground can fill the gap twixt your ideas of complete and of me. I can develop legs to bear my own burdens and conquer all of the time and space in between. which war am I asking you to ask me to fight? fact leaves it’s ghost, but the choice remains as:
A) I can stretch my lips so far east and west while I beg my skin to hold together long enough so that I won’t actually be forced to expose myself to the sunlight.
or
B) I’m stitched up and situated between endless miles of windowless wall- unscathed by limited attempts to actually escape.
either way, I’m casually a casualty, unleashing a plague and plagued by leashes. and worst of all, I won’t let you hold my hand. I won’t let myself pull you under as I pour myself into another year of half-enthused hypertext fictions to which we will inevitably end up with different version of the same never-ending.
