choice – perception / decide – definition
The windows slid open as the breeze’s comfort quickened. Phantom pains of sun rays pacing in translation.
transitory states, elusive and resistant in a blank face.
when the leaves turn ragged and rigid, they defy their make. I run my fingers in them, through this open window.
Because I never bothered giving it a screen.
the fire that I start is the one i let kill me.
i inhale its toxicity because it is mine, and mine alone.
you know where these hands have been.
i run straight for things, rarely away.
the bend cannot crush you, nor can it pull you in if…
that’s why my goddamn smile looks like that.
back to writing what cannot be found like anything can.
Before being allowed to leave her shift, they took her to a dark room wherein stood a table and two dusty chairs. No windows or other doors.
She faced the chairs, stoic. The man and woman entered. Sitting down, not worried about dust on their clothes, they matched expressions.
Three children entered carrying trays with organs on them. All parts of a human. She made eye contact with one. He was alive inside, barely.
They placed the organs on the table and left. She didn’t flinch; so this is how it would be. They said the usual, “You know why you’re here.”
“You’re going to need to pick one,” they commanded. She was already bored. If you’re going to impose fear, try something new.
They met her stare for minutes. No one spoke. She heard it perfectly. Then she kicked the leg of the table flat.
The organs pummeled the man and the woman, covering them in fresh blood. They stood up in shock. They were tied together.
It seems all the pieces were connected with a single, impenetrable thread and the two were trapped in this gory mess they forced upon her.
If there was a time to break face, this would have been it. But she didn’t react. She turned to walk, then stopped.
“You’re only as good as what you come for. That’s why the coercion is on you,” she said. “Forward my paycheck to my Next of Kin.”
~~writing this beautiful thing again. For you.~~where is the where things strike the same place twice.
worth fighting for.
nothing more than that.
hushes don’t get quiet.
they get louder.
every frame shudders
breaking the insignificant film we close ourselves by.
that’s what is truly deafening.
we can hear it.
we are it.
yea, that’s the voice.
Every invisible decibel, an annihilation.
fingerless hands scratching on the absence of a chalkboard. the reverse of all sanity.
breathing new meaning in the nominal shift of a verb: unheard.
Inspired by Isis
the things that are not me.
yet define me anyway.
you can’t really scream into this box that will make the only reason to scream go away.
it is absence.
and the second you scream here, you’ve broken it.
but not enough.
it is never broken enough to fit fully into your hands.
but you grip tight anyway.
fighting for and against the only thing you need.
fighting with the only thing you have.
and you know you can’t get nothing with absence.
so you let go.
the scream will just sit between your lips.
it isn’t even a scream.
it doesn’t exist.
that’s why it is there.
“When you forget, nothing hurts.”
Nothing is everything to me.
Its power of absence surges in my windpipe, takes my air, wells my eyes, destroys all want of feeling.
Tears of never.
Right where I want to be.
Exactly not what I need.
We are just creatures destroying ourselves.
That’s why he loves me.
All that is pointless of course. You don’t even read me. That, we made too.
I love it because it is impossible to identify. That’s the only way I know it’s there.
I’ve never been more conscious of my conscience. It’s exhilarating and defiant.
The scream trapped on the lips is back. Taste like volcanic ash that never found air.
“Much of this. Just say to say.”
It was the chaos in your eyes that got me.
Double meaning: “@ArabProverbs: Watching what you say is your best friend.”
The futility of despair.
Awaiting collapse. How badly I
When I think the ache of loss will swallow me, I unbite my tongue. Whispering treachery into the darkness, bidding the sulfuric bite of glow. Your tinge sears my shoulder in the touch that never prints. Ink cartridges empty by evaporation. We the same: unused, discarded, adored.
Before the ocean, the willow tree.
Before the willow tree, the yucca’s counterpart.
Before the yucca knew friendship, the paved highway that fought itself with mirage under the sun.
Water only glistens like that when it isn’t really there. I drove like hell right over it.
But not before I stopped, and took a picture. Holding hands with my nothing.
It was that absence when you rode subways, seeking the way best meant to capture sound.
Having listened to the wind all day, I placed my ear to the waves.
And then there was song.
There are parts of a person that cannot be stolen. That is why they incarcerate us blind. They’ll take everything else in their futile power. Maybe they should have considered that before they tried to regulate us in language. Here we are speaking around hegemony. In our own words.
You are somewhere here.
I speak with you.
Remember that space.
My only hope is that when this all hits, all that we said, what you saw, is how things are.
My every step is me being that.
That is all that matters.
I promised I’d show you.
And I’ll die trying.
Because I love you.
Because love is always where we are going.
You dared in the night. I dared without sleep. We are making this.
Do not, whatever you do, forget.
You are some where here.
These words exist in the senses. They tell the tale of all that’s hidden underneath. They are graceful void. They layer you when I cannot. They narrate the beginning in all those todays. They draw me: line by line. They’re the me you drew with sticks in the sand.