and all of the names were false

I’m in a manic state of restlessness, shifting mindlessly from page to page without any sense of friction, a senseless fucking of my psyche. There really is no purpose for why I refuse to sleep, when I have all of the motivation to do so, and all of the reason to obtain the appropriate amount of rest. There is no deadline I need to meet, at least presently. There is no specific problem in my mind. No, I am not spilling my heart out. I’m not writing an entry in anything, or an exit, for that matter. You’ll think this is an error message, but it’s the only truth I’ll ever tell you: This message has no content. Are you sure you want to send it anyway?

Nothing cleanses your mind quite like a public bathroom. The faded sunny yellow of the walls reflects off of every object in the room, creating a cheery oasis amidst the tumultuous stresses of corporate life. I tried to splash my face with the cool faucet water, like Hayden Panettiere in those Neutrogena commercials, hoping to emerge fresh-faced as well as fresh-souled from the bathroom, but a second before the tap water droplets fell, I caught your body in the mirror reflection. You were a man, I’m almost positive, which meant two things: I’m in love, and I’m in the wrong bathroom. The water fell ungracefully into my eyes, momentarily blinding me, just like my sudden rush of affections. Love, I was left paralyzed, struck motionless by embarrassment and admiration. The cloudy shadow of your suited form became larger and larger. I felt you inching towards me, my heart strobing like a nightclub light. I felt a cold, electric brush on my shoulder, and now my heart, once on my sleeve, lies on the floor, water mixed with blood.

blind date

Someday you’ll understand.

Every leaf of inhibition mirrors the veins of your hand—

You compulsively tear strands of grass from the ground;

Since you were a child, you loved its lack of sound.

.

All I ever wanted was clean breaks and milkshakes.

But instead you told the waiter, “We’ll just have some water, thanks.”

And then over linguini, you told me how you felt;

You killed all my dreams with assassin-like stealth.

.

When tears come in streams, water tastes like moonbeams.

But water can’t feed all my fabricated dreams—

I need chemical strawberries frozen thick in my veins;

I need your ibuprofen stare to kill all of my pains.

.

High fructose corn syrup coats my soul, love,

It trickles my insides forming sugar stalactites.

I lie to myself while doing makeup in the mirror;

I’m lying to you now between bites of white rice.

.

Goodnight.

“She’s in a war of consciousness,” he said aloud.

He pointed the camera to the pile of limbs.

The image screamed “moderate hit with a sequel.”

The love-limbs grinned and turned to her side.

“If I hide my surprise, will you tell me how it ends?”

So he mouthed her last words from his lips to hers.

famous last words

The teen years consist of slowly coming to a realization that the world is not as fair or as conquerable as you always thought it was—-and that’s a terrible and beautiful thing. And you realize that Newton was right, and that with every terrible, terrible thing that you come across, there is a beauty that matches its terror, and with each beautiful thing, a terror that matches its beauty. And you guess that despite what anyone says, or preaches, or believes, the world can only be accurately described in two simple words: terribly beautiful.

guarded

When is it the proper moment to cry?

Indecision creeps from my well-trained eye.

Goalkeepers aren’t only on soccer teams, love,

So watch my body’s rhythms like I’m

Manchester United.

love letter to a city unknown

New York City fucking scares me, but it makes me feel alive.

I don’t know much of anything. I often feel as if I’m regressing, fading into an oblivion negative enough to depolarize my every atom. I don’t know why. I don’t.

Yet whenever I’m in the City, I feel a physical shift. Something palpable. Something real. There is consequence to every step. Dreams are at an arm’s reach. So are the demons. So are you. But at least you can finally see them.

I have never before felt so insignificant. So absolutely present. So powerful. The suburbs shower you with the moldy grandeur of significance since birth, an empty baptism. You are special. Sing the gospel. Write your goals in the blanks provided.

Significance is a separation. Postulation, not protein.

To be insignificant is to be a part of something. Whatever it is, you’re in.

Influential.

The City and the person take turns playing canvas.

And everyone, every one, separate from path or sphere or goal or flesh, is always in motion. The spirit of the City is that we try. We all try.

We recognize the power of the City and ourselves. And we underestimate neither.

I’ve been trying to find a way to keep that feeling, for me to invoke it at will, so that I may go about my days with a sense of power.

I’ve tried snapping twice at inspiration, hoping to thread the senses.

Maybe there are no threads. Maybe they’re everywhere.

Maybe that’s the same. Maybe that’s beautiful.

return to sender

a train without sound is hard to derail
(how can something so beautiful fail?)
I tongue the scar of your rough-boy love
and find nothing but consonants there.

I recall once wishing for a heart of ice
or a bomb-heart, a heart-myth would suffice
like school chalk, lessons strangled my lungs
it is summer now, though; I no longer care.

my demons, they twirled in espadrilles
on my tender skull; I needed purple pills
yet I opted to sleep in the sharp snow, bare
til I was clothed in crocus and clover.

I’m patient when I want to be
a patient when I want to be
impatiens when I want to be
study me, study me.

I’ll fall for old books, Barthes, or roses
for baby’s breath, I won’t
I’ve been spiral-ing since my first breath
study me, or don’t.

a train without sound is hard to derail
(how can something so beautiful fail?)
I tongue the scar of your rough-boy love
and find nothing but consonants there.

lost
Love. The sweet burn of a camera flash on retinas used to darkness. The red that accents lips and blushes in grayscale photographs. A cigarette burn. A stray spark. A sun-charged seatbelt buckle. Instantaneous. 

We long for love because we need something real. Every other emotion is relative. We live by comparisons. We don’t need compliments on our boots. We don’t need pristine report cards. If the world were to end, we wouldn’t have pride. We don’t need pride.

All we need is for someone to get lost in our eyes.