if my shoulder blades would just snap out
and accept their place as machetes
guarding whatever it is my ribs hold
where the magic wears out rather quickly
and i make potions out of reconciliaton
to whatever i used to believe was worth
this was meant to be written in parantheses
but all i’ve got is a mouth full of theses
on theories of everything in the world
i look at too often
i asked someone recently, “do you
ever just stare at plants?”
and she looked at me like i was crazy
so either i exist in another reality
or dimension or whatever this
(where the ego has died
and my veins know more drugs
than the volume of blood i’ve lost
or it’s everyone else
and i’m protected inside this bubble
i keep trying to get out of
by writing poems
by popping pills
none of it works
so god created loneliness
and named it
so humans are the joke
but the thing is
i’m used to my heartbeat being called a punchline
and i don’t want to lay in bed anymore
with someone that doesn’t lay awake at night
admiring what dreams i haven’t let die
i may not understand syntax
or know the best recipes for metaphors that
know how to make poems
last for centuries
we all die at the end anyway
and if the only thing that remembers me
is the stardust i turn into after this life
i want it to burn
brighter than the sun
(it’s raining. let’s stand outside and dissolve into the earth until we wake up an eon from now as supernovae.)
this is the most romantic discovery, it’s comforting in an existential crisis.
I just read this article talking about how a computer has provided a solution for problems humans are able to check.
A computer has provided a solution humans are incapable of understanding. Beyond this one, there would potentially be larger ones to proof after.
”[…] But that raises an interesting philosophical question, says Lisitsa: can a proof really be accepted if no human reads it?”
Literally, our species does not have long enough in existence to proof it. It’s being called non-human mathematics.
what in the hell is the universe made of, did we just discover the first answer to the fractals of reality?
and even if we did, we can’t understand it.
I don’t know whether to be humbled or terrified. Maybe I’m human after all.
There is a burning hot temple in the center of my mind. It’s where I go to in order to take out the trash. One, the worth I thought I had when you never quite figured out the right way to look at me when I enter the room. The weight of that emptiness.
Two, my heart.
Three, those many moons I bagged under your eyes in hopes you would understand how restless it made me the first time you hesitated before saying, I love you.
Four, (or was it five, six, this may be all of them) it got to the point my bones shuddered whenever anyone said your name.
Five, it wasn’t out of passion.
Six, Fear. Fear capital and encompassing, my soul a riddle only the black holes of your intimidation and indifference knew how to solve.
Seven, I was never the sea, darling.
Eight, I was the goddamn ocean, I was tectonic plates, I was bullets and fragments and sacred geometry that makes so much sense you could fuck yourself to it, I mean I was vulgar and impenetrable, I was unstoppable, I was unstoppable, I was un-stoppable. and all of this is in past tense.
Nine, the days it took me to decide to leave you.
Ten, I’ve got a lot of trash to take out and Atlas is too heavy, so I decided to get high for the first time in a year and I’m not even sure if I trust myself anymore.
Eleven, at least this time it isn’t taking shots and slamming whiskey, I was getting tired of the ring lines of bruises on my floor.
Twelve, I haven’t even got to the bruises yet?
Thirteen, why did it take so long?
Fourteen, I don’t know whether or not you taught me more about breaking hearts or letting people break mine.
Fifteen, there are ice bergs inside my chest now and they don’t fit in this goddamn trash, so what inferno of a memory do I have to reminisce in order to fuel what I need to melt the ice you fucked my chest into?
Sixteen, I’ve been trying to find teeth that bite as hard as yours. I haven’t wanted tender things in three years.
Seventeen, that isn’t me.
Eighteen, it’s not a coincidence.
Nineteen, none of these are me. You injected my identity like it was a dime bag not worth picking off the streets.
Twenty, and you knew how high we liked to get. So tell me why it got so bad the substance always felt better than what you had to offer me with your company.
Eighty, the average beats per minute of the human heart.
How I don’t have one anymore.
Twenty one, I kept thinking I could love your anger into remission. I didn’t realize the disease wasn’t linked to my inability to love you properly, that I wasn’t to blame, that I blame myself for all of this.
Twenty two, It’s my fault.
Twenty two, It’s my fault.
Twenty two, I’ll always think it’s my fault.
Twenty three, all the albums I can’t listen to now because they remind me of the stupid love we were never good at doing anything to except breaking.
Twenty four, the number of ribs you’ve left bruises on.
Twenty four, the hours in a day. How the clock became my enemy when I was with you and now I don’t know how to tell the time anymore, so I keep missing the sunset and sometimes I wonder if that’s what you were after the whole time.
Twenty six, because there’s no way in hell it could have been me.
Twenty seven, and the nights never belonged to us, anyway. All along you were sucking them into your mouth, unwilling to kiss me.
Twenty eight, unwilling to fuck me. Oh, I had problems with that one. It doesn’t even need a metaphor.
Twenty nine, most days I still have trouble accepting that there are people who genuinely wish to love me.
Thirty, the belief I’m stuck with that it can’t be true.
Thirty one, the scars on my body because of you.
Thirty two, the perfect ending. I don’t want it.
There is a burning hot temple in the center of my mind. I go there to make wishes off shooting stars and what’s left of the dandelions that had been dying in the back of my heart. I’m counting them again tonight and wishing on epiphanies.
One — day maybe I’ll be able to understand that it wasn’t my fault and it’s okay that it isn’t happening today or what feels like any time soon or at all.
Two. I still take too many things to heart and I bruise easier than ever, but I let myself dance in the rain recently and surviving was worth it.
Three. That’s all it took. Return to the rain. I could have never existed as a mermaid in the drought of what vast emptiness you felt for me.
Four. I have enough strength and self worth to fall in love with someone else, because
Four. I am the goddamn ocean. I am tectonic plates. I am bullets and fragments and sacred geometry that makes so much sense you’ll fuck yourself to it. I mean I am vulgar and impenetrable. I am unstoppable. I am unstoppable. I am unstoppable, and
Four, the intoxication is so addicting I just might let myself do it. On weekends I welcome her to get lost in the rabbit hole of my consciousness, what meets at the apex of the many realities I live inside of at any given time.
Five. I am learning to accept my own madness.
Six. It fucks me better than you ever did.
Seven. That’s what it took for me to get it. Madness. I love myself better than you did.
everybody i just wrote a sort of aggressive piece and i think i’m experiencing hesitation in posting it what am i scared of fuck it here it is
I knocked my ribs into my heart
I want to pretend it was an accident
but who’s kidding
it’s easier to blame my insides
shallow and irrelevant
than think of how this has to do
with what’s in my head
or what isn’t
or what could be if I just knew
what the hell I’m doing
I knocked my ribs into my heart
it was the bluebird I was looking for
I wanted to wring its neck
and tell it to stop
keeping me awake at night
I turn the lights off
take note of what’s left
by the end of the night
I’m losing count
of which have died
in the hands of women
that don’t understand
how to keep anything
I lose the best ones
to a lack of self-respect
and epiphanies I never
seem to think are worth
maybe I won’t learn
how to love myself
until my dreams know
how to glow in the dark
or my veins erupt
under the pressure of
talking to stars that
never say anything back
why did I choose to
fall for the moon
when I’ll never be able
to know what it’s like
waking up next to her
so I exist in the infinite minds of separate consciousness’. my chest beats to the rhythm of earth pumping its magma like god’s heartbeat must have sounded the first time mother nature gave birth. the pitter patter of my thoughts are a hum only drugs and good head know how to cure, but at least i’ve found something that works for me.
I’m tired and my heart has a glitch in it today. I can taste all of my long lost demons and they’re back for revenge; lately, the punching bag of my consciousness has been at ease, but right now it’s ripping at the seams and I don’t know I don’t know I don’t know what to do with it.
don’t you know where I come from
animosity in the apathy of living
and a hunger that never knows
when to stop
or what’s good for me
I keep biting into the neck of adventure
trying to find something that makes
my soul writhe
or is it my heart
trying to find a way to be whole
so I drink wine with God,
pretend I know how to shoot pool
and that skydiving wouldn’t scare
the hell out of me
if only because I never know
when I can trust anything
to catch me when I fall