“we were fucking for a few months whilst she was still with her boyfriend”
this is bad writing
this is bad writing and its boring to read
“We’re not fucking we’re fucking in love ok”
Love is forever, aand
Life is the thing that you make when you’re free
Can we live together
the remarkable question.
City of God
Want to kill myself but no not able
Fucking western privilege.
Oh Lore At least architecture; poetry.
Happy for two hours, depressed for two hours
across the road from my house
a limping dog sang of sorrows
I wanted to begin his life again
so I shot him
and laid on cement
his blood stinging my skin
for hours long
I picked the heron
off the sand
I pulled out
until it was
a snake in the garage tonight
as i was slipping outside for a smoke
by the rose garden, and like any other
terrestrial serpent it languished
slowly to the kudzu, a press here
and there, of its body on the still
far away, a whole universe
trembles like a cold pigeon
If I die in the sweaty white car today promise you'll carve into my bones
Promise that you'll polish my 12 gleaming sentries until the moon shines against the guardians of my lungs
Promise you'll inscribe the letters of my wandering soul upon those bones that carried me
I could never thank you for your labor.
and I've already traveled so far in these nights it seems like my bones would know my unmaker singing and rattling the way bones do in the wind like a bottle tree trembling with gravity
you could sharpen a point on the end of my femur and defend yourself from assailants
you could use me forever.
artistry and cutlery a joint proposition.
and you could remember when I told you about the time it rained so hard I could feel the pelting rain on my scapula and spine. the time it monsooned and I thought if I died someone could use my frame to build a bone raft
but now I know that I want my bones striped in maroon berry paint.
I think I should have always been strange like that. a skeletal leper
a striped interior