a flower for every rifle

you had me open. you could have taken any part. didn't. just mixed things up, emptied my compartments. my cafeful distance. we spanned less than touch, more than also. my suttures are artistic. impressive and unhidden since you pulled out my drawers. everything hardening into one. singular and pathetic. you had me open. scratch. a pure substance.

you. part of the mixture.







i want to be a whole person, now it is a goal, something i see in everyday. and now that i have been made aware of my flaw i see it in other people, and i want them to be aware like i am. i want them to know they are hurting themselves. i guess that is natural, once you know something about yourself you realize it is not so much unique as it is part of human nature. its like a protection device, preservation. everything comes down to preservation. as if we are truly cowardice at our core, because connecting to another person takes so much more than it should seem to. because imagining hurt doesn't compare in the slightest to actual hurting. and when you've been hurting yourself, when blame is removed, it is all the worse. and all the more poetic.

or tragic.

lullaby(e) appetite

i haven't slept in the past 4 nights. not well anyway.

is it too cliche to want to breath with someone? to want mutual stillness?
probably:




wholeness; a blanket
my coma.
stranded sleepless,
revolving door scences
play to you;
dry and dark.
disapointment, morphine
sweating under stillness.
lovesongs for the ceiling,
a lullabye i didn't write.
contours and stucco
lay down and relive you
awake. absent touch.
weigh me down
make me heavy.