Hey

Hey

I know we haven’t seen each other in a while
But it’s not like I miss you

It’s just that I saw the stars tonight
And they whispered to me your secrets

Sticky secrets with flimsy limbs
Grasping at my hair and hands and happiness

Like chewing gum
Smacking against your teeth

Not that I miss you, but I just want to
Climb into your skin

Suckle on your bones
Like a starving infant

Until they’re dry and cracked to dreadful dust
Leaving your awkward, unworthy flesh behind

I’d gather it up, your flesh
Folded neatly like a linen shirt — skin smoothened to neat pleats

I’d hide it in my trunk
With our forgotten dreams and all the dead things we left behind

I’d keep it
Only for a while

Only for a day
Perhaps for a night

Then I’d toss it out the window
Like a carefree little vixen

Laughing and self-loathing
What a modern woman I’d be

Lonely and occupied and cautious and free
Sometimes melancholy, sometimes a little blue

But, hey
It’s not like I miss you

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Hunger

Hush, now.
I’m trying to listen.

To the rhythm of my thoughts;
The sound they make as they shatter a placebic reality.

I want to swing hard and strike true brilliance,
Release a great grotesqurie of violent epiphanies from my chest.

I want to witness my desolation,
Mourn the monotony.

I’m only rotting flesh and decaying marrow,
My want morbid, yet monolithic and real.

Hunger makes me tremble;
It pierces the dead ache in my chest.

Hunger makes me reckless;
It makes me bleed.

Come, now. Look here;
At this bleeding, aching creature made of hunger, hedonism, and esoteric beliefs.

Take her, if you will.
Mould her into art — a spectacular tragedy.

[Featured image via: Silvia Grav]