I have hurt the woman I love and until I can mend what has been wavered, I will be taking a hiatus. If there is anything that is more important to me than my ability to continue writing, it is her. Best wishes and I appreciate everybody that decides to wait around.

all of my love letters are always too late, but take this anyway.

The truth is, I will love you even in the midst of all these collisions in my head. There will be angry nights in which I want nothing more than to snap the wishbone of my hips in half so that you can never get the chance to fuck me back into yours, but there will also be nights in which I put my mouth to your scars and suck the sorrow from your bone marrow.

The kind of love I choose is the ruthless one. The one that makes it hard to breathe when you’re gone and that twists my insides into unrecognizable territory. This is the only world that I get to live in for now and I do not want to waste the days I’ve left being scared to give the softest organ in my body away to foreign hands; I will thrust it into your palms and let you do as you wish, standby on hiatus as I fold my arms over my chest and fall backward into the transparency of your trust.

And if I fall, darling, if I fall into a vastness filled with nothing but cigarette burns and razor blades, so be it. I will wear your fear with pride. I will wear your bitterness during the most intimate moments and I will never hold another’s hand; I will wilt away like this, burdened with the need to fuse my flesh to yours and if it is too late for that, if it is too late for me to love you properly, I’ll know it when I look into the barren warfare of your darkened eyes.

And I will love you silently, from far away, with wishes pinned to the cardboard of my homeless chest. I will love you in cacophonies and hopelessly and I will be thankful that you existed next to me for however long you have and when you come to say goodbye to me, do not do it tearfully. Do it with the knowledge that there is now a heart in me which will never be able to belong to another.

The truth is, i will love you even when you’ve left. I refuse to believe this is a tragedy. This is my heart finally learning how to say hello. This is the pearl under my tongue opening up for you, the crystals in my lungs exploding stubbornly in your name, the worlds in my head recreating the big bang.

The truth is, our love is revolutionary (and I can only hope you’ll be there beside me to watch the world go down, not as a distant memory in my heart, but as an entity standing next to me, holding hands, jumping into the pit of this runaway world together).

"I want someone who is fierce and will love me until death and knows that love is as strong as death, and be on my side forever and ever. I want someone who will destroy and be destroyed by me."

my heart is a mass i don’t know how to stop.
she sleeps in the belly of all of the calms before the storms which lay
mute in the epiphanies settled under my tongue.
my mouth tries to call itself the mother of entropy,
but in reality it comes down to my inability to bow in the face of pretenses.
censorship is not a language i am fluent in.
i have tried explaining this to authority, to all of the officers whom
walked in and out of my life as casually as the ghost of my father did.
i have tried explaining this to my lover, to the ghosts that rest in our bed, too,
but my mouth has a tendency to stop working just when i need it most.
that’s why i have faked this degree from m.i.t. in engineering, just to
unwind the hinges of my jaw and rework the inner mechanisms of
the means to voice whatever reality it is that exists in my head today.
it won’t be the same tomorrow.

lately everybody has been telling me that i have this air of indifference.
i try to tell them the significance of the fallacies in which they live in,
try to explain that it isn’t indifference i’m projecting,
it is that my heart is a mass i don’t know how to stop and
no one is interested in listening,
but i do not need inattentive ears and wary chests in order to
prove that my existence on this earth is valid.
i do not need to prove myself to a generation that is lost in a
conflict of what it means to convince ourselves that we are alive and worthy.
this is the last time i will say this: it is not indifference.
it is the understanding that my mind is light years ahead of
where it was yesterday and i do not want to waste another second
building you a rocketship when you haven’t the heart to
believe in the concept of stardust anyway.

"Some people underestimate how erotic it is to be understood."

lover, won’t you love me something gentle today. my heart is in shambles. my heart is necrotic, entropic, an expedition on the run with a twisted ankle not caring to heal itself. my brain is a rattling mess inside the bars of my skull and i cannot put together a single, coherent thought. all i’ve got are these shaking hands, palms turned upward, the nape of my neck spewing spinal fluid. i must be immobile. i must never take another step. i must freeze in time. this is it. don’t you understand? this is my threshold.

i think of how fragile we are. i think of mankind as a species, the concept of what it means to be sad (not just sad, but that soul-aching, never-get-up-again kind of sad, that kind of sad that weighs deep on your shoulders, chokes you late into night, drives you to take a knife to your wrists, empty pill bottles at your feet) and i think of what must have gone wrong in the world when its people resort to fucking killing themselves because the idea of breathing another moment of this life is too much to bare. i think of how fragile we are.

i think of what a jewish prisoner wrote in a concentration camp. if there is a god, he will have to beg my forgiveness.

(i am beginning to wonder if there is a picket sign left jabbed in the soil in front of my heart that reads get out while you can.)

Anonymous asked: would you mind telling us about the people that have approached you on here? their kind words and friendships and support?

but how do i even begin to accomplish something like that? when it comes to things like that, tender things of the heart, i am selfish, and it makes me want to keep the kindest of words that have been said to me all to myself—the only thing i know tangibly of what to share in regards to the nice things that have been said to me, the hands that have been offered in times of dismay, the support that has been thrust my way even when i was unwilling (when i need it most), is this:

once upon a time, i terribly did not believe in mankind and although i am an optimistic person in terms of the universe as a whole, i was jaded. the kindness that i have been given here, the people who have approached me, it has resulted in nothing more than a restoration of my faith in human beings as a whole.

and i can only begin to stress what that could possibly mean to me (and how eternally thankful i am to each and every soul responsible for the impending uprise of my spiritual being).

what i wish my mother would have told me

i.
it’s okay to wake up some days
not believing.
whether it be in your faith,
yourself,
your beauty,
the contents of this world,
it is okay to give in to that desire to say,
no. not today.
when this happens, close your eyes
and go back to sleep.
just always remember to
wake up.

ii.
it is inevitable
to get your heart broken.
you are going to be made of
mad promises and
you are inflicted with the
curse of contradictions
in which some will not have the
strength to take the time to
understand.
do not spend your life
wishing to be understood by
souls that do not exist on the same
plane of consciousness as you.

iii.
you can drink to your hearts content
try all the drugs in the world
fuck a different girl each night,
but these things will not sustain you,
they will not fill you.

iv.
you are radical.
even when you feel like giving up,
remember that you are one of very few
willing to be the voice of millions
and it is important for you to be heard
even when you believe no one is listening.

v.
love without consequences,
with a distinct lack of care when it comes to
just how broken your ribs can be.
do not bother with pretenses.
do not be scared when you cannot find
other human beings whom
believe in the same things that you do.
they are out there,
just as lost as you.

vi.
it is okay to be alone.

vii.
do whatever your heart pleases.
do whatever your soul pines for.
this world is caught up in the
business of trying to keep up with you.
do not apologize for being
ahead of your time.

(more importantly—)

viii.
i love you
and i will always be here.

letter to nobody in particular (vi)

i don’t mean to write to you tonight. slip this inside the v-neck of your collarbones, slip this underneath your hipbones, too, somewhere half-tangible and yet out of reach. i don’t mean to give you these words, but i must purge, in some way, and last night i chose drugs, a few weeks before that i was choosing alcohol, but those artificial verbs can only do so much and it’s the comfort of another human being that i need right now (of which no substance, no matter the intake, the overdose, can replicate).

tell me that these fits i have inside of my consciousness will do for better days eventually. tell me that the innards of my being are not made of rust and decaying material; the first time you met me had to be somewhere among the stars, that is the only place in which i am willing to make the acquaintance of another human being for longer than a few seconds at a time, so if we are both made of stardust, then why don’t i have any shine in me right now?

i’m not asking for a pick-me-up. there are dead forget-me-nots left uprooted in the valleys of my body. at night, there are hundreds of hands that attempt to stow them away somewhere permanent, temporary, i don’t know any longer. this isn’t an attempt at poetry and my mouth is fucking tired, don’t kiss me right now. i have read many books, listened to thousands of songs, touched many people platonically and romantically, yet there are no answers for me. only upturned questions, ending in exclamation marks, proclamations of all of the things of this world in which i have yet to unearth.

so, i am not coming to you for a cure. i have accepted being inflicted with the desire to feel everything; i have divulged myself in the utmost curiosities of this world. what this is, what this may be for the first time in my life, is a plea for the ability to accept that there will not always be answers awaiting me at the end of my never-ending stream of conscious questions.

there have been hundreds of poems i have written
in an attempt to put to metaphor
the way in which you fuck,
but none of them will do.

you
are more than what i can
relay with these limping consonants.
i could venture through each and every language
dead and alive, written on cave walls, and
excavated from the corpses of ancient pharaohs,
but nothing comes close.

instead, i give up the illusion of my mouth
the god complex of my lungs
the epiphanies settled between my thighs
in a fragile attempt
to have my fingers
root inside of your consciousness
and fuck you from the
inside out.