Unfiltered threads of exhausting, familiar things

I don’t believe in love. It has no permanence, and has shown no authenticity, in my life. And yet I find myself looking at you

and I wonder.

Growth is never linear,

and never quite the same for anyone,

yet we are like weeds;

they may stunt us for a time

but [human]nature is

the act of coming back.

You can have my thighs, keep the change, and my heart was yours anyway - but the poems are mine. The memories are mine. The pleasure, with unquestionable certainty, has always been mine.

His father watches me like a memory, I hear him like an echo. He is ignorant to both. “Thank you,” is the look we exchange between doorways, “Thank you for not teaching him what they taught you.”

Does a fledgeling know if it can fly before it submits to the fall? Or does finding out spark a fire under their wings so wild that they’ll leap just for the rush of knowing?

I ask this standing on the precipice of my own branch, body ablaze.

give me the dreams in you

People who are not used to being seen remember everything differently. On the most unloveable night this year, you still said you loved me.

The kitchen table becomes an altar after a certain hour

The grief of a relationship boiling down to “I love the you who once was but I have lost them”

Confess the torment your mother put you through and I’ll tell you my favourite song in winter - you and I have different ideas of being vulnerable

I don’t speak my mind very often, and I haven’t told anyone my favourite song since I was fifteen, but somehow you’re unpeeling layers of my soul that nobody’s seen in years.

Forever, I have hated the recreational idea of holding hands- for someone to possess the one thing I own without question, the cradle of my worth.

For you, I would give both in a heartbeat. I know what you’d do.

I was folding one of your shirts the other day and had to fight the urge to kiss your collar. This is something I do not think friends do.

It’s you again. Again and again and again. I walk a circular labyrinth of passages that all lead to the centric problem of impermanence: you are always around the corner but you will always disappear.

There’s a shadow of my past self in you and it haunts me, I was every bit the you who got away.

The trust I dropped at your feet splintered into a thousand pieces I was wholly prepared to watch you step over and walk away from, instead you knelt down so carefully and it’s here I find you still - delicately setting each shard into the cradle of your open hand

I feel rather like I’m tearing away a dream by not living up to it’s potential

when salt is rubbed into a wound, doesn’t it itch? Your loving of me is a wonderful, healing thing but that does not negate the urge to scratch it raw regardless

What kind of mad affliction festered this loveliness in you?

Stars, you are off chasing dreams faster than I can follow you. It wears on me, this distance.

I am one ill-conceived notion away from grasping at you the way I want to - the way sand clings to the sea, or sap drips from the pine, or mad poets crinkle paper

Sodden soles should not mar a holy ground. I keep expecting to burn for my arrogance in the wanting - it’s a freefall; you make me a sinner, you make me a star.

I wonder sometimes, do you hear the static buzzing through my head in the fashion of your tenor? Have you paged through the sketches in thousands littered across my table of all your favourite things- the concepts I have ritualized in the sacrifice of my sanity? If I ever dared show you, would you brush your fingers across the paper and feel the swell of my heart in it - a frantic, terrified warble?

You are in absolutely everything. I cannot look at a clock and not feel the absence of you in the time wasted.

-18:10PM

It’s a decaying sort of ache to listen to them talk about her like a god when I think of you like a scar

- On Lost Dogs and Old Wounds

You look in the mirror wishing for a jawline and a bit more sleep. I look at you and wish to clamp all of that unloveable stuffing between my teeth

The thing to know is this: distance is acceptance. I do not belong with you in the same way the street dog does not belong to the butcher, or the back alley, or the little boy. What is here was loved once, and loved wrong; it cannot go back and it cannot be made good.

I should have been a ballerina,

the little, insignificant kind made to spin on music boxes because

I know when I dance around people, I get underfoot,

but when I am not in motion

I am intolerable.

I stand at the edge of the world each night,

staring out at the moon,

And wonder sometimes when you stare back

if you’re seeing stars too.

-Moon-gazer

Name: Mars

Age: 22

I don’t really do drafts. I also don’t really do tact, green tea, or good life choices so…

Lets talk about it?