She held her breath until she felt near purple.
I braced myself for the explosions.
I found out she was water soluble,
When she dissolved through my fingers.
I braced myself for the explosions,
Afraid of how it would affect me,
When she dissolved through my fingers
On the day I stopped blinking.
Afraid of how it would affect me,
I hid in the dark,
On the day I stopped blinking,
So I never miss a moment.
I hid in the dark,
She held her breath until she felt near purple,
So I never miss a moment.
I found out she was water soluble.
Miguel.
Twenty.
Poet.
Practicing owl.
Forever a clown.
Octopus in training.
•Things I Wrote
•Twitter
Tragicomic
Siren
Doubt and Skepticism
I watched her as she ran her fingers through her hair,
Wondering why she was lying about being here.
I texted her asking where she was going next.
She tried to lie saying “nowhere, I’m sick in bed”.
Heartbroken, at the bar, I ordered another,
Complained to the bartender about my so-called lover,
And how I caught her unfaithful but I gave her another chance
And that I couldn’t believe she was making this choice.
The annoyed mixologist gave me another shot
Tired of listening to my bullshit.
“Go talk to your woman, man. I couldn’t care less.”
Defeated, I rose and I turned to leave.
But somewhere courage replaced the numb
And I had to do something while she was still near.
I headed to the table with the girl with the auburn hair,
Choking back burps that smelled of beer.
Steadying myself, using a chair as a crutch,
I composed myself, adjusting my crotch.
I spewed a bunch of words that came out in a jumble
And the girl with auburn hair in the green jumper
Turned to face me, pretty and puzzled
It was when I realized that she was pouting
That she wasn’t my girl, who just sent me a text
Asking if I could bring her some soup since she was sick in bed.
Red Noir
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions. - Sylvia Plath
The wrinkled, wintered face with intense eyes
stares at the peeling plaster, looking for the source
of the sound, the scratching and snapping, that was before
only played during the nighttime; when most children are having
nightmares about bicycles. The mocking tune, a relic
of a past existence and other failures, brings to mind
the worst type of nostalgia; the sharp scent of blood
mixing with metal hangs dead in the suffocating stillness,
reminding us that we can’t help but be foreign. Memories of
Jesus and distress pour like venom, seizing truth
and distilling hope into bacon grease. Newspaper clippings
smeared with the filth of our anecdote taste like
burning and frowning impotence.
Dusty Tuesday
We spent most of the day reading tarot cards
Trying to remember the times of amnesia
She has a gash on her shin
But only remembers giggling
Our pockets are empty
Except for blue candy hearts
Meteyourstruly
Her eyes shone like the stars moving along the sky.
Suddenly, the urge to kiss came and I know why.
Perfection was epitomized in this moment; embodied by her.
This feeling caused the butterflies in my belly to stir.
This was real love and I think she’d concur.
Fingers interlocked as we stared at the stars.
Some are shooting while others just quasars.
For a night like this does not come often;
When such a radiant being causes my heart to soften.
As she leans over and gives me a kiss,
I know the truth of the cosmic dust’s wish.
(Source: dontsellyoursoul, via abovethecloudsagain)
Mushroom Clouds
2019:
We are only happy when the city is burning down around our feet. We remain uncharred because with bare feet we learned to walk on coals. We move between places; laughing in our destruction, breaking down as they rebuild. We steal hope, gleaning joy from the eyes of lovers, converting the positive energy to fuel black hearts. We live in the shadows, fading to the back of your conversations, reveling in sick, dirty private urges. We love only ourselves and sisters. Our constant inbreeding makes us strange but keeps our blood strong. We are a proud people, keeping ourselves separate from the rest, until we attack and steal away souls for our own filthy pleasures. We keep them locked away, in our magnificent homes, trading favors for provisions. We call upon the wisdom of antiquity; the secrets of our fathers; using our learned talents to exploit the weak.
2136:
We ruin words for the sake of sarcastic undertones; vying the for applause of our masters. We jest, we hurt; because of us, everyone does. We whisper soft nice words to the blind widows who beat their breasts in need of love, of something real, something vicious, something visceral. We’re not helping these women; we torture them with our verbal water boarding. We find ourselves laughing after tricking the beggar children, we know it is immoral, but the reward of our deeds feeds our own children, so we continue our games, drinking away our shame. We cannot escape the burden of our existence, it is all we know. We cannot shake our sickness.
2267:
We are the drowned offspring of the desperate children of the future, waiting for time to let the fog pass. We are distraught, not sure why we were forsaken. We cry at night, trails of tears eroding the skin on our faces. Its forever night here, so our eyes are permanently red. Our desperate need for attention has us in back alleys performing unsavory tasks for a fond look. We don’t care for the money, but gladly pocket the gifts because the more we have increases our desirability. We are all alone, never comforting one another because our selfish hearts only know how to consume love. We cause ourselves pain in an effort to occupy our minds; we don’t want to hurt but we need to hurt. We are the sweet, sick whore of today and the stupendous, magical working aristocrat of tomorrow. We pray for prosperity but our gods are deaf. We mourn our fallen brothers as we peel the flesh off of their bones, their grief is our sustenance.
2345:
Our concerns aren’t for ourselves but for the lives of our younger brothers. They cry, sucking at air, for nourishment, a mother. They’ve destroyed the womb from which they come, forgetting their actions in howls of distress. Picking them up, wiping their eyes, into their ears we pour lies: “Mom’s away for only a moment. Keep your eyes wide and she’ll soon return.” Breaking hearts later is easier than letting them down now. A cute child’s wail is the most evil. They’ll grow up as we did; a little broken but coping with hardened hearts. Our lives hurt sometimes but we can’t say they’ve been bad. Yes, we’ve had to invent love for our own purposes but now we can use our experiences to soften the small ones’ fall. We now know our place, our purpose: to extend our species’ life. It’s a lonely, vicious circle, but any other life would be strange. We’ll soon grow old and by the earth devoured. Let us know that we’ve done something right.
Teenage Folklore
It’s somber and blue and rather ordinary;
behind her eyelids she’s probably being chased.
Watching over the trembling lips and clenched fists
no longer feels like a chore.
She’ll never know what I’m actually doing,
only that I’m near when she wakes with
fear in her eyes, melting into a smile,
hardly remembering the night before
but claiming that it was the last of the sort.
Laughing it off, forcing me to assure that
despite amnesia and misplaced spectacles
fun was had as we sought rhymes for orange
and legitimate uses for body glitter.
Sleeping pills and Anti-Depressants
Chaste maidens hide prescriptions
in esophagi, keeping calm until betraying
clammy fingers suggest imbalance
and flushed faces coupled with erratic tears
foreshadow manic tremors.
Medication fails to reproduces the ordinary
as dependence degrades self-awareness.
The pretty, spun girls exist in mindlessness;
anime eyes above permanent cracked smiles
mask the hell of disappearance.
Crawlers
Alone and a little dead
Sitting admiring the contents
The conscience
Of their mother’s head
Licking lips
Spitting soliloquies
Surrounded by wilted lilies
Growing increasingly sick
This wasn’t ever planned
Reckless children without direction
Submit themselves to hell’s infections
Behavior that should be banned
Dirty mute kids drown in dusk
Hearts as black as their sunken eyes
Unassuming children, their cruel guise
Mouths mustached with stale pus
Romancing the Memory
She’s what makes me sick
In the mornings when I wake up
To her picture next to my bed
I know I should get rid of it
But a day without seeing her face
Is much worse than morning sickness
I hear her laugh in my ears
And turn to find the smiling face
Of a girl who isn’t nearly as beautiful
