This could be my little
book about love
if I wrote it--
Yeah, I guess so. The writing seems to require a sort of living that I'm as yet unwilling to succumb to, though. Emotional availability, what? Unconvincing, my friend. Unconvincing. And then she says, "You don't want to," and I scoff, secretly lining my cilia in tangled knots to tie in the volcanic infection that pants for release. Maybe she's right, whatever that means. But what does that matter? Lots of dark and twisties do it anyway. They shatter repeatedly, silently, and it doesn't make much of a difference in the grand scheme, other than to up the contrast and saturation of beauty and joy...so fuck. Sliver away, m'dear. Sliver away.
I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.
If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside the door.
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