a little perspectivei sit up,face the sunlight,and yawn a littlesong-i comb the dreamsfrom my hair,letting the worldseep through my skin,i walkand slip intomy favorite,white, whiteblouse,with thebuttons to myhips,while children,with bobbing heads-thick as bonesand sorrow-fall into themselveslike little housesof cards,only there are noqueens or kings,only numbers,only days, onlytime, only-lovers split and loverssob and lovers stoploving and shatterlike mirrors andsingle mothersgo poor and somefathers aren'tfathers anymore,the streets stinkof death and liesand cheats and love,and memories, fleetingand fragile, slippingthrough the asphaltcracks and i ambrushing my teethand skipping down the stairs,but some girls are skippingmeals, some families areskipping meals and somepeople have forgottenwhat a meal even is,they only knowmugs and the chime of coins,and here i slumpbeneath the weight ofbooks and papersand red A's andB's smearing likelipstick,and the
sometimes all you really need is for someone toi was loved; it was enough.
the culling songi watch the clock shift,its hands sinking like ships.every notch in its ropelowered into the sea of time,i realise i spendmost of my timethinking of dying.listen:i'm going to kill myself.please stop laughing,it's only going to make medo it faster.and it goes like this:you pour your hips into mineand i hold your bones togetherlike an eggcup of wine.truth is i fell apart years agoand you're only talking tothe fragments of a human now.i feel you on an airplane,pushing its way into the skyas a baby does from its womb.you're leaving me behindon crumbling ground,faster than even youcould have dreamed.i become an ant,a segmented beingdivided in three-where i am,where you are,where we were.and it goes like this:you leave me like dirtunder your fingernails,and i hope it makes you sadto drive down my streetto see my houseempty of me.i want it to make you ache,like your concernsfor yourself over mewere warranted,founded, reasoned.what happens is this:a
when someone you loved becomes a memoryi'm interested in things falling,breaking,and being forgotten.i like to seeglass bleed,it makes me realisei'm not the only thingrunning red.when i look,i see passing eyesroam the lines of my arms,italian winding roads,and quickly rush awayinto their houses.nobody likes to watchsomethingslowly crumble-if it isn't a crash,a tragic accident,an innocent deathat a hundred miles per hour,but a drawn out,intentional decay,a condemned buildingwith cracking windows-you will always seethe whites of their eyesas they turn awayso as to never meetthe deadnessin yours.
Judgement"You need to stop doing this.""Stop doing what?""Writing me into your stories.""...why?""Because
it scares me. I'm not this guy that you write about. I'm not some kind of Prince Charming and I'm certainly not a sea God or whatever you like to say about my eyes every now and then.""Oh really?""Yeah. You really need to work on your judgement of people, because this is all wrong. It's like you don't know me at all!""So why don't you correct me and I'll fix my idea of you accordingly.""Well
firstly, I'm a really nervous person.""Yeah. Your hands are either fiddling with your hair or your sleeve, or you're biting your nails.""And I don't like going out. I'm a hermit.""Except to your best friends' houses, or to the animal shelter, or to me.""And I'm dead inside.""Says the boy who hides his tears at the sight of an injured puppy.""I do not.""Yes, you do.""Anyway, I'm not always nice to you. In fact, I really don't do enough.""You're right. Except
EasterRemember what you love,you with sand in your teethand the feral burn of hungerin your eyes.God sends his regrets.He made you grasping and slow,in a late hourwhen the wine washed low.Remember what you love.Fall to your knees in the tossand the swell, quellthe appetite of the cold black sea.Beg blessings for your homeand the salt-sick trees.Reach what lies near:the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.Offer psalms to what is holy,whisper the name of what you loveas it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
Running Away"What are you afraid of?" He had asked her as they lay there, under a bay window that showed a velvet black sky, sprinkled with sparkling diamonds. After a few minutes, a hand reached out and took his. He looked down at the soft hand, paper white with rivulets of sapphire under the skin. It had never occurred to him just how much he loved her hands until now."Would you like the truth? Or will a lie suffice?" A dulcet voice whispered. She had still not turned to look at him, but her hand in his remained strong."The truth." He always asked her for the truth. He didn't want rubies of falsehood, of lies, to ruin what they had taken so long to build. He understood them to be a diamond, and the truth to be their diamond cutter, pulling away pretenses that shouldn't exist. And so, her voice lifted slowly."I'm afraid of the door when it shuts out the light. I'm afraid of the jolt my heart makes every time you look at me. I'm afraid of the park bench where my mother and I used to sit and don
ForeverFor eternityOur destiny is determinedReliving the pastEnduring the sufferingVisions of the futureEndeavours to comeRepresenting life as a whole