After your dreams have all died and morning isn't morning, what are you?
"i am a better ghost than you"
This is what’s called vague “I want you” poetry.
Five minutes in your mouth minus the time translating the things coming out.
You are a weekend full of rest.
Your heart is a cemetery and they kiss you like you’re dying.
You were buried many times but you are still my favorite episode.
You are so much at stake.
Give me your hand in the release of you.
I love you and you are still seeing dark-
while i am looking at the small bloody tooth in the meaning of you.
You are so tiny where i have to burn you.
Ebook- I am a better ghost than you
So i made my first ebook, idk if i made it right but OH WELL. Anyway, feel free to look at it and tell me what you think. ts called “i am a better ghost than you”
Now you are wired around my memory. You, the restricting vine, pull every escaping thought I’ve ever had about you right back home again. You must know there is a distinction between what I say and what I do. I tell you that you set my heart in place, but my chest is shrinking with every glance you fire. I tell you that you set my heart in place, but my skin feels chalky. I think I’m crumbling at your feet.
"I fell in love with the things you said instead of you"
but how do you fall in love with someone not just by their words? They say that if you do this, you are falling in love with the idea of someone and not the actual person but what the frick am i supposed to think when you say things like “I don’t think there’s a God, but you’re a freaking miracle of a person” and ”I love you more than anyone, fucker.” ?
Some people all they have is words. I am those people!! help this is why people leave me
Someone once told me that poetry is a form of lying to yourself.
I didn’t believe it at first, mostly because that person was me….
but I am learning how to lie to myself.
I want to write something honest,
but lately I have been deceitful so I can’t.
I keep unlearning the things I’ve spent so long trying to convince myself of and I’m sorry.
I don’t know why I keep apologizing but sometimes its the only thing I have to write about.
Isn’t the real reason for writing repentance? Isn’t that all it is? If it is, I could go on for miles like-
I keep listening to my subconscious and I’m sorry.
I keep searching for parts of you in other people and I’m sorry…
Maybe in three years I will have enough feeling to form an actual poem
but for now I can only write about guilt and the hands that I don’t know how to reach for.
this was in my drafts
i dont have any blood on my hands but what is that which comes with the guilt of betraying u?
and these are such small simple thoughts but it builds up into everything and more of everything and everything again and im sorry
i dont know why i keep apologizing but sometimes its the only thing i have to write about. isn’t the real reason for writing repentance? isn’t that all it is? if it is, i could go on for miles like
im sorry i cheated on you even though we are like almost the same person but you never were subjected to any of this. you do drugs to open your mind you don’t know why i do these things that i do, there is a reason, somewhere i promise. yesterday my lit professor said that it takes a very strong character to break away from the impression that was left on you by your parents, the legacy. for example, if you were a child who had always seen your parents drinking and getting fucked up to deal with their problems, there is a much higher chance that you will throw yourself into alcoholism as well. but wouldnt you want to abstain from that? wouldnt it be more logical that you have seen this pain and lived through it first-hand that now you would want to run as far away as you can from it? I keep thinking about this and when i indirectly talk to you about how im cheating on you you don’t get it. i used this reference once. the alcoholism. you didn’t. get it.
how can you invest that much time into a mouth only for the person who it belongs to become a stranger
the first guy who ever called me worthless was my 8th grade boyfriend. remembering that we’d talk on the phone late at night & when someone was coming id hold it to my chest waiting for them to pass my stomach rising and sinking you never brought the phone into the bathroom with you you’d just set it down on your bed cus you thought i’d think the sound of you peeing was gross and that was nice of you i guess
things i don’t know what to do with
come over to your house and you end up half fucking me
say “we are terrible, terrible people”
you laugh, say “oops” and kiss my forehead.
sorry the bruises on my neck are from someone else sorry.
at least i like your hands, i think.
like you better with your clothes on and your hand around my neck.
thats where he grabs me, right there.
its all about the dedication the worship to this one body,
this is what naked women are supposed to look like.
im sorry my stomach isnt pretty to look at
im sorry i want to set myself on fire
i wonder if im depressed
sorry the burises on my neck are from someone else sorry
- youre a horrible awful person since childhood and i cant believe you never grew out of that
- havent used my tongue in six months
God is a rotten kid with holes in his jeans and bags under his eyes, throwing rocks at his own bedroom window. I don’t feel okay. I wish you loved me sober. Your body is a machine, and it will break down. Spaghetti in bed. Naked. I can swallow 6 pills at once. You’re a broken hourglass, but I refuse to buy a watch. I’m waiting for a time that will never come. At least I can drive, and climb mountains. Your eyes will be like boarded-up windows when they find me, when they find any of us. I don’t believe in God.
He says why are you being like this again. I don’t know what you’re talking about, I say. People love in different ways. He says that doesn’t make any sense. You’re just being poetic. You don’t even know what you’re saying. I say they’re tossing in my head. He says who? Who’s tossing? The birds. They’re back again. No. No there are no birds. They don’t toss, they don’t burn. You dream them, he says. You make them up inside of your head. I say I am holding all of these flowers— STOP, he says—and they are dying in a way I don’t understand. There are no flowers! he says. Do I have to fucking spell it out for you? Nothing is dying. There are no flowers. It’s just us right now.
I say you’re not understanding me about the birds.
Game, Michael Gira.
…I feel nothing for you. I hold myself down. Keep to yourself. You shouldn’t touch me. The skin peels off my bones. I’ll give you a gift: take the skin from my stomach and stretch it across your face. Look in the mirror: I see myself through your eyes. My body’s on the ground behind you. You use it to amuse yourself. When you kick it around the room you feel the impact of the boot in your stomach. Cry for me. Blame me for the fact that you no longer recognize yourself. Lying here, I want the air in this room to consume me, to pull my body in behind itself while you stare down at me uncertain if you’ve lost your balance in me. You’re running your hands along the leather surface of your skin. The sound this makes changes pitch according to the area of your body you touch. Your thighs and your groin generate a low hum. The sound of my corpse releasing dead air when you kick me. Your face generates a continuous high-pitched squeal. The sound I make when you burn me. I take you over. You forget yourself in my body when you chew a piece of skin from your finger. You remember my body in your mouth. My bones crack between your teeth. I love you. When you lick your hand your sweat tastes like my blood. Conceal yourself. Close yourself off. Pull back into my skin. I’m inside you. The place on the floor where my body decayed left a stain on your memory. That’s the signature of my love for you. You can’t forget me without losing yourself.