towards-eternity

my skin is raw red and wedding-white from when the watches' honed hands lacerated me as they melted, but i am no salvador dali. [48] the writer says, i can feel the words with my thoughts but not with my fingers, and i cannot trust my thoughts because objectively they are not real. repeat after me: i will only believe what i have physical, sensual proof of. i will only believe what i have physical, sensual proof of. physical sensual proof - the writer says, i process that with my thoughts; therefore, there is no proof, no physical, no sensual, no reality, and no "me." "blood" will not splatter my fingers incriminating crimson; "skyline" ca

so she told me, hair water- falling down over         her ship's deck shoulders, that she would like to be with me: we could write stories, said she. i reached out: empty air; the ground splitting beneath me into warring factions and i had been standing on the 17th parallel for too many years now, as the pressure escalated up, up, and away – "you won't be happy, with me," (her stainless steel nails dig deep into my serotonin skin as she takes her place beside me, distracts me from the fall) – "no, you won't be happy," she assures me, "but then, again, you ne

and i remember standing by the mirror tears swelling up inside of me and every breath was another waste of space between my ribcage and my soul and it's funny, really how when you lie to someone, you still know the truth and swallow the guilt in a bowl every single morning with your corn-flakes and skim milk, and in the old days what i saw in the mirror, that was black and white and red all            over you see, these wings, you've given me; and now i am learning, child hood again i think they call this growing up, learning to live day by day - not day to day, mind - learning to smile in the sun and b

if everyone were how i wanted to be, there would be snow instead of sunshine; every morning, child ren[d] would don the faces of old women and shudder out of doorways and back - wrinkled and worn and sterile and faint and cold in -side. so: stutter down the streets, legs fashionably fine and lips fashionably blue: it's the latest trend to give yourself away - to throw yourself away and i knew a girl, see, she still lives in the space between her fingers, sunlight streams through when she looks at her reflection in the mirror - illuminating her like an angel from collarbones to toenails and she, she cowers ben

because really, this is humanity: the sum total of all we are is far greater than our ambition as to what we could >would/should< be. (be.) and this, she said, this is what i want, want to be come to be-come-be; she draped beauty around her sunrise shoulders like a shawl disproportionate to her little mangle-toed chinese footprints and, ever the most considerate child, soft- spoken  and fragile- boned, proceeded to master the art of vanishing entirely. trying golden locks with stolen silver keys, i. find it rather humorous that pens are symbolic of power but anything can simply infiltrate my pores like arsenic (which we