Autophobic Fruition

Months ago..

Feeling far,
I’m taking apart my lungs, or
sucking in oxygen that burns more than it breathes.

Creating several selves-

on different days,

hoping to create something which lacks proper existence

in a place where everything made is eventually bought

or everything thought of is eventually stolen by investors.

Investors in time and in energy, in “land” and in reproductions,

where ghosts aren’t figments of fractured images in your mind,

instead they walk halls with you,

they speak of children and of furthered zombified days, daze,

where pieces of selves crawl from the pores in your skin to the cruxes of your conversation, 

become saviours or blows to the vitality of your existence amongst others,

where you wonder what pieces are acceptable or taboo.

badluckbigley asked: What is your inspiration for your wondrous writing- melancholy, retrospect of such, or are you delving into your "mind's eye"; the worldly perspective within your own (I hope I'm not coming off as odd for asking a question such as that (I just like letting my curiosity get the better of me))?

‘wondrous writing’? I think it’s mostly reaction to my reflections, but even at that words don’t even remotely come close to sensations. 

Lost reverberation, or soon to come. (maybe fabricated?)

forgotten eyes bleed for familiar minds,

but existing all the same.

waiting for a day to wake to same souls,

normal behavior on the basis of past,

on the basis of desperate wishes to last.

cling to familiarity until it taunts,

until it up-heaves my core.

with no bearing, with no wheels, 

no which way to steer back toward

a once well-known voice,

(maybe still known, though tucked away)

voice, in which the cracks I know better than my own palms,

your tone spoke the feeling,

and i’m spilling myself out more than once,

though perhaps too internally.

i’m a sister in memory, maybe in soul, yet not in practice. 

your lips only indicate distance,

distance that will grow,

and excitement for what fills that,

distance. 

(but maybe this is just right now)

hope. 

II: Notes without words; I wish you could really read my faces

listen: chemistry doesn’t end.

teeth-gnashing at prospects of 

ending or beginning yet another romantic tale. 

“people here aren’t scared of color”,

we feel records rub up against us.

to dream of death, i think, is to

dream of eternity lying in our laps,

petting her furiously, 

casting motions that lend themselves to hopes of still staying ever closer. 

measure time in lovers, affairs, and chemical fascinations.

innocence, to eyes rolling backward, to two bodies engulfed in flames.

embody day, mimic night,

we become our own definitions,

to exist and lose control.

tethered to inward thoughts as I am to my own soles. 

must mind them, mend them, grow. 

Notes without words; I wish you could really read my faces

illustration illuminates inside worry.

single-paned windows

let love in, let light in,

dancing over dead-end bodies,

outrunning thought,

seeing wind faster than words.

tangling your hair,

disappointment lay below the waist-line,

and unsurprising birthmark. 

II: I steal from light and I still can’t focus

the loneliness is clear and 

the precision is lost, but the 

loneliness was never intended, and 

if succumbed to surface- trouble ensues,

in real, in reality, veils come undone- 

we all want to be what we can’t for each other.

Steal the energy and feel your own soul.

Clean, clear, innocent in essence of empathy.

Become beyond physical. 

I steal from light and I still can’t focus

stained in star-struck deadlock,

though we sit in calm spectacles

and I lay in diner-caught destiny,

not even hoping to find hopelessness a little more hopeful. 

unsure of words to soothe sensation,

calm her, tame her.

So distant,

surrounded with these plastic gestures.

So distant in reciprocating arms after orgasm,

I can’t even scream to come back anymore. 

March 30-31

maybe i’m not relaying, maybe i’m not inflating

those real thoughts that stir and sink inside your soul.

crying, dying for symbolism to grab my hands and guide me,

lead the cycles of these lips in the right direction,

to set you on fire, to ignite desire,

but these insides feel so plain, and i feel so tired. 

Maybe something else fairly unrelated

we only know the tips of our own tongues,

i don’t embody trust, i murder it.

whatever bestowed upon me, i bleed it dry. 

vanity speaks slowly,

tangled amongst wires of false altruism.

you live double think,

i don’t edit, i carry, i feel, and i follow

tolls of death resound,

residual-

fruitlessness hikes up your skirt,

subtle until it soaks,

not spineless enough to bleed through

or carry caution by the belt.

find me writhing in lament by the door-

welcome mat stained in disparity,

an influx of breath

a shaking hand across the floor.

i find the pits of my stomach ravaged by well-worded gypsies.

i want to be free-

the instability shuts its door,

a pistol of purity

easily brought home by the stretch of a finger-

and forevermore lingers faith in death.

swimming in herself, she sleeps with sorrow.  

what to do when you feel unworthy

we dream in words meant for worlds past,

hoping to bathe in the comfort of others,

to veil ourselves in their dreams and realities,

though their presence lacks validity,

only undone vessels and resown seeds,

burst open and sealed shut,

whose impermanence reminds us only 

of the fleeting selves we see. 

phrases can’t carry figurative meaning

just heavy connotations and overbearing tones,

as fingertips’ve the inability to wade lightly

inside our souls.

connecting through contrast,

voices run dry,

run weak and seem shallow.

hard to believe the blood in your veins

Like our 'zine collective!

Try

Waking to souls tossed in cages

merely for striking the match of imagination,

a forbidden flame so stunning

it shakes the flesh from one’s own bones.

The silhouettes emit glorious reflections

but the images themselves are bare,

but not blank like the slate of your skin

before it was jaded with memory

or contorted by measurements

and marginalized by peers.

Bare in a negative context

with a repugnant echo

with a ring to it so ghastly

no one ever wants to play its chords.

Desolate like calling out over cliffs

only wishing that the sound of your own voice

was the voice of someone else

and not just the reverberated half-life from your own mouth.

Climb from your cages,

throw down your walls,

and thrust yourself into radiance.

(Or try to.)

Pale

I shape cigarettes with my thumbs and forefingers in synchronicity

hoping to reconstruct your figure,

coming back to your sleeping soul in my bed.

Where sunlight bleached your hair beneath the foyer,

tearing open packages and

your eyes focused on the contents,

my eyes focused on you. 

Hoping I can reinvent your presence

merely by mimicking your motions,

like shards of you will show up beneath my skin,

I’ll pull them out like glass,

setting them to my bedside

and praying to them at night.

Praising them at night.

hi