still ill

its horrible fucking reflection. on the inside of the cage, snapping at anyone after years of cruelty. 

i wish i could be sweet, tolerable, and run into your arms. safe, like a mother should be, how a mother should care.

but nothing really changes. i grow taller. i am bigger than you in stature. i am still a kid on my bedroom floor, so scared. 

picking ceramic out of the carpet. pushed and pulled so hard i get rug burn. kneeling on colored pencils and grains of rice. pressing my face into the corner of the walls. welts that don't last long enough for anyone to really notice. bruises and torn pages. nothing truly mine.

i barricade the door, i run away, i tuck myself into the smallest of places. 

but nothing can protect me like distance. i get a key to my own room. i am broken into. i am still a kid on my bedroom floor.

and i sob, lonely, accompanied by my radio and my reading. rapunzel in his tower. angel with clipped wings, withering from disuse. 

picking at myself, feathers and tears may fall, but are they mine? its just rain. i smile, brushing my tears away.

wet winter

i'm still waiting for your plane, taxi, car, train. i can’t keep waiting, just go. please leave. that motormouth will take you wherever you want, whirring and buzzing along, the occasional stutter or single syllable speedbump the only thing that stops you.

i don’t have much in comparison to you. full of thunderclouds and dreams and dissatisfying satisfactions. tiny little drips of words drip drop, drip drop, until suddenly good old indy comes sprinting through, giant rolling sphere hot on his trail like a bowling ball knocking down all the pins of resistance.

then it’s not a drip, it’s a flood, and i’ll fucking drown you in me.

bumping down the road, teeth gnawing through your lips. there’s a canyon up ahead, but you don’t look at the forest for the trees. don’t worry, i’ll catch you, for the crags and the spires and the danger at the bottom will turn to dust at my wish.

reality. oh my roiling, lazy guts filled with nothing but instamessage bloops and noxious coffee grounds. that’s nothing that anyone (anyonemeaningyouormeoryouoranyone) wants to see.

stir and wait 2-3 minutes

powdered coffee sludge, down my throat like sand, but my mood won't fucking budge.

now I've gone back to juvenile writings and scrawlings on the walls. cold burns to the cheeks, heat runs down my gullet. pushing the feeling away.

eventually back up it, onto the freezing sidewalk. my feeble attempt at a functional breakfast upended next to a couple frosty dandelions, holding onto life in a crack of cement. fuck. they're just like me

going on and on and on

we should all just sit down

and think

think to ourselves about the time spent:
together

apart

together

apart

up
and down

and all over again
lips on mine

your mouth is like leather
keeping me warm
or, too fucking sweaty
smothering me in the heat of the world

never used to run so cold
your hands used to be the dead ones

guess we should both be