fistfulofstars

always round-trip tickets counting the hours from me to you knowing the sky is grey there when here it is forever blue days turn into weeks a sentence takes an hour static and stationery time in all its power can't describe the clouds somehow they're pink today the moon like a cigarette burn what i see, not what i say it doesn't matter if days or weeks it's all a lifetime to me action doesn't keep me from not moving i'm running but i don't seem to be just empty my lungs it'll all come soon enough the nights by your side will make everything else not seem so tough

My wallet is a green apple. I wish it was red. I wish it was red twice over, so I could have a reason to fall over. All my worth in that one apple. 70 little atoms of energy in an endless firestorm. I picked it myself from its leafy solstice home - and it came to mine. Apple & egg carton, a seam- less continuance of carnal verisimilitude. Sweet center and bitter cover. With all my worth wrapped up in it.

I live alone. In a red egg carton. Damn eggs. -- Always smashing around me when I least expect it. Little bombs of yolk soil my clean red calls, my stark white shirt. I'm glad the life was stopped -- to make my house. Sinning chicks that deserved it. Stopped in mid-divide. Feel my pain, little bitches. An ended life -- used for omelets for pranks for fake diety celebrations. All in my house. My beloved, simple, red, fragile house.

Without warning, a great anger seeps out of my eyelids, out of my fingertips.  I want everyone to feel a ton of weight on their tongues.  The weight I feel on one cornea could be shared by all.  Trudging up my hill, my light summer shoes  a ball and chain on each ankle, my back rounded and hunched - defective.  Every cell waning and splitting in the strain.  Fat throat stifling the sound - erased sobriquets.  Breathe with a ragged rhythm - self-conscious, self-loathing.  Mark my words on my face, on my hood, on my window - force me to accept, to forgive.  Force me to laugh, to smile. To crash. With those beautiful, deadly berries tempting

I found myself drawn to her - or the fantastic image of this woman and who she is.  She who certainly has never heard my name, who I was, what I was or am.  I found myself recreating myself in her image.  Cream on my face, I became uncontrollable, slathering it on until my face was already whiter than usual.   Smelling her perfume, her clothes, her slippers.  Squinting at the small photographs so inconspicuously placed, making me wonder why I placed mine in the most accessible places, judging myself.  I leave space for my own eye cream, neglecting her scent - worried he will notice my obsessions.  Come on, I tell myself, you aren't like this.