Emo? I think notSo, because I have cuts on my wrists, arms, legs, hips and stomach, I am Emo.Think again,Emo is for losers with nothing better to doEmo is a fad that people follow because it's "cool" to cut yourself.Emo is a label applied to everyone who self harms, whether they are or notEmo is a derogatory term used by teenagers to make fun of cuttersEmo is a word belonging only to those who have no REAL reason to be sad.I, my friend, am a cutter...Being a cutter is feeling completely worthless.Being a cutter is feeling like your heart has been ripped to bloody shreds, without it's constant beat ever ceasing.Being a cutter is not wanting to get up in the morning because you feel like no one would give a fuck if you weren't there.Being a cutter is not knowing where you get the strength to continue living.Being a cutter is considering suicide as the only way things will ever get any better.Being a cutter is wishing for a serious accident to land them in the hospital to see if anyone cares
sleep and dreamevery ebb and flowswims like a memory,floundering or achingthe way they dowhen sleep deems itselfking of impossibility.(these are the timesi wish you couldlove me long enoughto remember,and dream.)
upon knowing the answeryou are punctuating.i find myself asleep beside younot dreading the most singular transitionbetween sleeping and sleeping aloneuntil i am wrappedchrysalisin my own bedwith too much spacesurrounding mei like thinkingof how this is not a memorythis is a momentthat is repeating itselfevery time we findthe gaps between minutesand fill them with ourselves,like photographs i can't wait to takeand imagine so many timesof the lens reflecting us,reversed images,and how that feelsmy feet are still unsteadyon a ground too nascent for tectonicsbut i am feeling promisein the way the camera catches youlooking at mein ways i don't see myselfi like to think of howyou touch meand howbetween mountain rangesit is so jubilantbuoyantfull like the cloudsforming castles in the heavensand it is so softso secretso lock and keythat i find myselfburning an obsession with heatunder my skinwhere your fingers and lipsleft off.
handsi call the basket weaver mother soshe'll curl into my future self but timedoes not go lending me a favour, knowswhose accusations fray its essence (minemight be the least inspired) but she will findthe centre of my soul outside of days,each reed she plaits a branch of my lifelinein disbelief of past or coming age.she grows indefinite & kneeling, prayswith spokes & palms repeated into sky,each revolution of the wicker mazeanother texture for the looping i -the cursive of this self she'll craft beyondthe memories of selves i'll have, i've lost.
Is My Heart Broken?I don't understandWhy my heart beats the way it doesWhen I see your smiling face.
glowthere are days i don't want the sun to set on us; where we should race it, rolling westward at an unstopping momentum, bringing erasure to the day's beginnings as we flood toward an unreachable end.it's a day like this when i realise we're impossible -- you, with your baked-clay shoulders, squeezed tight and compact, small but so present, you, with your brier of black bristle encompassing the two lips, softest rose, bringing nature back to intimacy.it makes me catch fire, in our setting sun, to see a desert-bright radiance reflect in your room. it's when you change your clothes behind the wooden door of your dresser; when you return from a shower, a rainstorm bringing me beauty and the complex scent of a clean man; when you dim your light to match the moon's as you strip off the day and safely stow away a secret within me.the sun sets too quickly for us to catch it. the longer you hold me in copper embrace, the sooner we reflect the short daylight we are given.
I love you (though you'll never know)You've been sweet to me these days,though I ambroken glass and prickling skinpupils diluted in the midday darknesstic symptoms and bones bentyou've beenvery sweet these days.(I know why, though I play oblivious.)Smelling of sweat and sawdustskin cells strands of hair softly breathing against me,your pulse is 1,1 throbs per secondand when I curl up in where you are1,2 1,3 1,4 it goes up (you tried to take my pulse oncecouldn't find it and we laughed'that's my secret', I said,I'mactuallydead.)and yet you're here for me.this evening, halfway to hibernationour bones m e l tin the warmth,between our squished bodiescurve of your stomachround against my backside,we are (just flesh)lost and unfound,<
Old hauntsNumb fingers fumble at coppersand a dodgy purple lighter which is unfit for purpose.Giant splodges of starsas if God - in a frolic of youthful exuberance went wild with a paintbrush.Granite delicately held by shape and contour alone.Slotted together: a melee of ankles, hips, spontaneous larynx.Careless hopes, dreams wide, menthol cigarettes.Thoughts all quiet.