i just got robbed at gun point by two men, in my friend’s apartment. with only she (a 115 lb girl) and i. i don’t know how to breathe right now i don’t have anything to my name anymore i just had two guns cocked in my face. i will never forget her scream, holy shit

and the roommate and i get in an argument about it and she left the fucking place and i don’t know where the hell she is

i don’t want to answer the door

i don’t know how to sleep tonight

a thousand words I haven’t said—
let rot in the absence of your you;
a million thoughts I’ve left dead.

if it wasn’t for the crows that plead
for the imaginary of pulling through
a thousand words I haven’t said.

my worlds have been misread;
the tarred walls of my mind’s hue
a million thoughts I’ve left dead.

my ghosts tell me to go to bed,
says the nightmares are overdue;
a thousand words I haven’t said.

leave me your marrow to imbed
the corpses heartache accrue
a million thoughts I’ve left dead.

I will learn to love myself instead
and foster my new veins’ debut.
a thousand words I haven’t said
a million thoughts I’ve left dead.

inside me is a compilation of test tubes i drink from religiously.
hold me in the palm of the greater ego’s tranquility,
where the disease of immortality and entropy are making amends
and my mouth is a honeycomb of disease, test tasting
the many ambrosia of a person’s existence.

string me in the vocal chords of saying all the right things.
find me in the heart of an entity who speaks mind soul all the
thoughts in all the world of all the things that makes
no sense.

i go mad for that shit. my bones have been fragile, my aching
ache of a whatever-this-is distracts the frail of my nature,
the encompassing condition of neurosis and how thick
heartbreak can be on the ribs, where my adventure salivated
only months ago and now i am limp with rage and
the desire to tear the moon from the sky so that
we don’t have to share the same one.

forgive me, there are weak moments and there are
lost myself moments, on my knees moments, praise
what’s left of my rotting faith sort of moments, and
i drink to all of these religiously. it’s the self-harm of
discovering interest in hopping galaxies, the black
hole sort of woman, the let me take one more goddamn hit
sort of woman, i haven’t healed from the last yet.

how to let go of an addict (esp when you’re one too)

make this the last poem you write her.
cigarette limp in your mouth and your veins
full of addictions that have a better hangover
than being lost in the rearview mirror
of a time that never existed.

understand that time
is a concept contingent upon
man accepting serendipity
is god’s foreplay to irony.

shoot up while you still can.
don’t let your new veins go to waste
while hers pollutes with last year’s mistakes.

addicts like to drown where they can’t see
and the mariana trench is a mirage
our chakras don’t have the skill to fuck in.

your mind is a disease few understand
how to properly get lost inside of. you
are hard to love, eager for black holes
and beating your heart to fits.

let it exist where it does
and let go where it doesn’t.
make this your last poem for her.
stick with it. put the presents away.
do not think of her in specifics, in presence,
in anything tangible that won’t break your heart.

she did it for you after all.
you did it for yourself after all.
you go turn your stomach inside out
for a high that lasts five seconds
in a cosmic time you don’t even care about.

you’ll do it again.
you always will.
but at least now you know
how to make it taste
the right sort of way.

i’ve always been told my lovers get anemic
the moment their hands touch the lukewarm
of who they think i am.

i keep spotting little bits of myself
in the meteors of where i visit.
the clouds speak in riddles
and its better than leaning on heartbeats
that generate no electricity.

give me the many deaths
of loving you. i wear them around
my neck where the reaper
fingers my pulse when you aren’t looking.

fuck the clouds are so close
i can reach out and touch them
my veins are dilated and ready
for the master of my current self.

i wake up in bed with the mind
of someone unfamiliar and
wed the idea of never knowing
who i’ll be tomorrow

so it’s no insult
not loving me today.

how to waste a heartbeat

i know what a good hit feels like.
i know what the high can do to your conscience,
how it can make your heart forgetful and your cunt eager.
i know what an impressive trail of track lines consist of;
it’s obviously no big deal anymore, but
i was healing the set i got before you,
so you had new veins to work with.

what a day it must have been to find me
when i was just emptying the dose of who i was
and finding a better source to buy from.
i figured you would appreciate the quality of me better,
purity is something addicts pay more for, isn’t it?

i’ve had the filthy,
i know how the remote of a heart works,
i understand the attraction to an addiction
that knows how to fuck you in all the right places.

and it’s not me
because here i am missing the many faces
of your happy, the ones that
bring the room alive and
makes me buy 42 kilos of purity
so we can discover the addiction
of something that actually
actually
actually feels good come morning

the highs feel better when you know
how to control, it feels like something
that resembles permanency
and our chemistry could have been cut into lines
that would have provided enough for
racing snorting rows in the nursing home

when you wake from the blackout of your latest high
and you saw a spider in your kitchen earlier that night
and need someone to run downstairs to get medicine for you
or need someone to assure you the world isn’t ending
or that you’re beautiful
or that they love you, they love you, they love you
or that being pure means the darkness
gets to come with rewards,
or just to have the touch of another human being,
a consistent one, where their supply
is readily available and
will not leave you empty in the morning
or any morning—

when you wake, i will not be here.
the 42 kilos i purchased for our consumption
is erupting the animal in me that i had caged
in order to make it back home safe.

i am ready to be unleashed
and your neck was supposed to be
the first thing i sunk my teeth into
and my veins are ready,
but the dark side of the moon has shifted
and we will only hear each other
when morning is asleep
and we are howling
for somebody else.

and now who do i give this to
and do you understand every addict
knows how to drown
the only difference is i taught myself to swim
and i was trying to teach you too
so the next time we drown, together
we know how to get to shore.

Detach me from the inside and dispose what’s left of my resistance. The moon is ready to show me her dark side; my nights have been spent courting what’s left of the big bang and I still keep telling myself I have no need for miracles. The components of my mind are monosyllabic and filthy. I am ready to transcend, my bones have been unraveling themselves from the rapid decay of my indifference and I heard the sky say she is preparing herself. I didn’t listen for what, I just strapped what’s left of my courage to the rot of my spine and jumped. There is no need for me to look back anymore, I haven’t anything left in my past that deserves new roots. It has taken me decades to understand it’s my heart I should have wound to my wrists, not the beating palpitations of strangers that never knew how to make me feel good for longer than a few hours. I’ve got myself for that now and it turns out I’m better company than the misery of loving someone who doesn’t care to look at the stars with me. It’s like this: I stock myself from out-dated catalogs that don’t understand the wanderlust of my want. So I take out the garbage, so I sacrifice all the black and blue of being taken for granted, so I salvage what’s left of my good and build Rome along the curvature of my spine. So I stand straight, I fuck better, I laugh harder, and I come to the understanding that the only goddamn thing I need to survive is the will to make it out of this world alive.

Fuck me the way Thoreau’s prose
fucks the status quo. Replace
my vocabulary with six-
dimensional meaning.

Your pretend ego death has me on my knees,
the tranquility of your peace of mind
is intoxicating. Speak to me until
I fold into all fours, fuck me until the
sacred geometry in my atoms explodes.

Challenge the rootlessness of my insipid desire.
Write my collarbone filthy along the
prism of your tongue. Cause my ego
to make amends with Dostoyevsky.

Kayak Styx with me
so we can melt our minds to magnum
and cleanse our hipbones
in the fabric of mercy.

Come chain yourself to my
cerebral cortex for the night.
Tango the knot of this
meaninglessness with me.

You are a beautiful soul and your posts are a comfort to read. Thank you <3

by ciarapocalypse

this warmed me. i appreciate it from the bottom of my heart and hope to continue providing comfort. <3

the worse part about this is that my metaphors have been stripped. my prose is contingent upon the right kind of syllables that my mouth is making a stubborn mess of. my heart is pumping in all the wrong directions. my heart is a disaster, my lungs are diseased, the lily pads are rotting away in the pit of my liver and i’ve had enough moonshine to get me and my ancestors drunk for lifetimes. i wonder if i reincarnate i will come back as the lightning bug i killed on my birthday. i wonder if i’d make my way somewhere, anywhere, to a place that’s good at pretending it wants me until it doesn’t. until it doesn’t. i wonder if i’d cry. i wonder if it’d matter. i wonder when my poems will stop tasting like the underside of her boots. i wonder when my chest will inflate and have room for the love of someone that doesn’t mind the too much, the not enough, the prisms of myselves that i haven’t translated the geometry of yet. my tongue is a language i don’t understand. i wonder when it’ll come back to me, if it’ll hurt, how i’ll survive. i wonder why letting go doesn’t hurt so much this time. maybe i’m used to it. maybe i’m meant for it.