it’s getting hard
to get a hand on the matches.
they light and flicker away
before i can exhale my fears
is that a bad omen?
i think i’m going neurotic
and not in the good way.
let me take a bite of your flesh
i think the blood will sustain me.
if it doesn’t, no worries
there’s still many a pleasure to be found
in the grooves of your organs
and the marrow of your brittle bones.
i think i’m obsessed with
fear of graves, comfort in dead cells
what the fuck is the difference?
besides presentation?
whatever it is
does wonders for the enigma in my soul.
the parasite it feeds
is satiated and full
meanwhile i’m falling apart at the seams.
do you think god looks down and wonders
where did I drop the ball?
how do i
find solace
when i am too ashamed
of my own anguish
these feelings
pathetic in the eyes of all
told that they are worthy
that they are holy
when they are the epitome
of sin
itself
how do i
talk myself off the edge
when i can't even
convince myself to speak
to the all loving skies
how can i love
when i am afraid
to repent
but paralyzed
by the mistakes
i make to
survive
i am alone
and i know it
i am broken
and i know it
ignorance is bliss
knowledge
however
is shame
do you ever wonder what
it’s like to die?
i think it’s all i ever do
i think the dread of it
comforts my loneliness.
my heart feels a little ill
my brain a bit like it’s not there
i wonder if this is how the dogs felt
when we sent them to the outhouse
for that merciful slaughter.
do you think my bones are a remnant?
of times that were easier
or lives that were better off lived
by someone else?
i’m not so sure
any of this was meant to last.
but when the world ends
and all the ships are lost
i hope someone remembers me
for all that i was
and how little it truly meant.
These days
its harder to convince myself
that i'm a sadist
and not
a desperate little
masochist
hoping and praying
for a little attention
in the form of my own injury.
its getting easier
to ignore the growth
the itching fungi
growing out of my open wounds
i stare at the bulbs
peaking out from under my stripped skin
and blood flowing
staining my skin
i ask
is this all there is?
if so,
i hope i can find a butcher
before i'm sent to the slaughter alone
the kind of knife thats dull
but loving
and will tear into my tendons
with the kind of reverance
you only find in a confessional.
when the skin tears open again
please don't bother
giving me the hope of a needle
or a staple
leave me open and free
for the sunlight to touch
and the moon to frown upon.
that will be enough
to satisfy my soul.
fooled me once
shame on me
how many times can i fool you?
before the blames lost among the sea
baby doll hold me up
pass a cork and a blade
i have the alcohol ready
skin as a fabric will as a flame
molotov cocktail break through the window
take no names.
tattoo a lyric cut a date
all in all blood is shed
artistic or harmful
pick your poison and i’ll pick mine
(the glass is tainted, fake your sip,
survive the night and i’ll bring you a little gift.
kiss the coast fuck the waves
meet me at the gravestone
datura shades and Russian roulette days).
keep a promise
XOXO
till death do us part
i’ll take it serious.
you want to lose me? bring me the knife
stab me then stab yourself
blood pact made.
death do us part? don’t make me laugh.
you’re stuck with me till the end of
days
and a little more
for good measure.
don’t let the parrots mimic your beat
i’ll fuck up a heard
fight the bastards who stop me
(i’ll never be stopped,
bury me at your feet).
obsessive? darling it’s my middle name
grant me a judge and jury
and i’ll let you be the executioner.
kiss of death tastes so sweet
kiss of you tastes like sin.
sweet success i’m a bit parched
spit in my mouth i’ll keep it locked
away like a promise
filthy and obscene
you call me that and bury
"oh honey, pass me the shovel.
I don’t want your hands dirty."
you laugh and say one of us
will get dirty
either way.
well isn’t that the point love?
you stay clean as long as i get dirty
and when you’re sick of me
press a gun to my head
pull the trigger beloved
death do us part
keep the fucking promise.
cicadas on ice
tired and a little sluggish
they chirp in hopes of reaching god
while the devil drags them down
into cold
cold
depths.
can you see god from under the ice?
or can you see me?
i'm the one who pushed you
afterall
i'll save you if you give me your love
you'll have my everything
regardless
i'm already devoted
all you need for salvation
is pretend you can devote your life
to me too
so i'm not lonely on the cracked ground
which you fought so hard to escape.
pretend i dont disgust you
and i can give you life
you say that in my eyes
nothing could be considered living
but when i smile at the gore
and look back at your freezing body
i disagree
because you will always be a victim
to my sadism.
life is just you asking me
to save you from the convuluted actions
i call love
and keep the butcher knife
to carve out your heart
as a fantasy
rather than a reality
...
under the ice
the cicadas burrow under the dirt
ice can always move
cicadas can too
and so can my rejected being
but it seems
your heartless body
can't
...
why didnt you let me pull you up?
Digging beneath my skin
in hopes of finding you.
buried underneath
all the blood and tissue.
maybe you are the blood and tissue
when it builds up under my chipped nails
i contemplate sucking them clean
is it cannibalism if
the tissue is mine in practice
and only yours in soul?
whatever.
can you do me a favor sweetness?
hide all the tools from me.
i'm addicted to desecrating the graves
that reside on my body.
i like to count the pink spots
growing so slowly
tender from when i ripped back the skin
and the scabs
and pushed the blood out
just to watch the blood shine under
medical flashlights.
when i look at the sores
and the little creases
where layers of derma differentiate
i sometimes wish i didn’t
flush the remnants.
and sweep them into the trash
i couldn’ve collected it into a jar
a blood oath of sorts
just for you.
build you a shrine and present the decay
so that when i burrow the needle
under my skin
like maggots with your pretty corpse
it’s worth something
besides my own sick fascination with the end.
sometimes when i can't sleep, i think about all the things that i've missed
to lie is to share your hopes
i read that once
how easily something mundane
can stick to the soul like an old cold
i can feel the fluid filling my lungs easier these days
i'm approcahing death but i dont know how quickly
it's hard to prepare without a measure for time
do you think the gods feel the same?
how much can a contingency do
when you're not even sure how to place
the initial plan
i liken myself to fungi growing in a corner
filthy and unnerving
but impossible to truly remove
if we're all made of stardust
what can a gun do
in the face of my molecules
do you think we breathe daily
air made up of
a teenage suicide
or is the idea to die
purely a cleanse of energy
from a rancid world?