Sometimes I feel like a corpse over which the ravens of my darker thoughts bicker and tear out bites, choosing the tenderest morsels and leaving the rest for lesser scavengers.
girlfriend mumbles in her sleep
I stifle laughter
dinos in the doughnut shop?
oh no! t-rex fell over!
Some days I don’t want to be beautiful. Some days I want to be a monster, frightening and furious. I want to cover myself in armor and spikes, hide every bit of pink human flesh beneath ink and metal, grow claws and fangs and horns. I want to dye myself colors that warn poison! poison! so no one comes near. I want to be too strange, too foreign, too dangerous. Too different. Not beautiful. Not dependable. Not the good girl. Just wild.
(But on some nights, every night, I want to strip all that armor off and crawl naked into your arms. Be small and weak and unadorned; just a girl, neither good nor bad. Even on the days when I want to be a monster, I want to be only myself with you.)
If you must go away, at least leave me a trail to follow for the day my heart grows too restless to restrain; breadcrumbs, blood, tears, bullet shells, shards of glass or pieces of the moon, it doesn’t matter what; I’ll know what you have touched, so just leave me something and I will follow the day I can no longer bear to stay behind.
rising up, flooding every chamber
but that’s not what I dream about;
I dream about liquid fire
and me screaming over the thunder;
about jet planes nosediving
falling from the sky like diseased birds dashing themselves on rocks
escape by suicide;
about crumbled cities
refugees and ghosts;
it seems these days
all my nightmares are about losing you
within flesh and bone
a private piece of universe
darkness and stars and spiral galaxies
through which together we free fall
what I’m feeling, maybe
(what I won’t admit I’m feeling)
like a boxer
and what I don’t feel is
(but don’t we all?)
everything I am
everything and everyone I hold dear
and the irony is this fight’s not even the one that hurts
see how good I am?
the real thing I’m feeling
is as empty as the house I imagine when I look inside myself
nothing, nothing, NOTHING
the invasive presence
(it’d be something, at least)
(I’d take it)