We Live And Breathe Words

we live and breathe words

i’m overcompensating for forgetting to breathe                               by writing too many words

and trying to make them sound poetic when really there’s no artistic way to say

i woke up one morning and drank bleach just to see how it tasted and bled out

in a bathtub dying a thousand little deaths every time i breathed in

so you could imagine how it feels to be told you’re writing too many words

when all you’re trying to do is remember how it felt to have air in your lungs,

what it tasted like instead of the blood that you vomited all along the white tiles.

synonyms for destruction:

girl pretty face but sad eyes and you know she’s going to ruin you gently, but it hurts the way she tears you apart and picks out every thread as careful as when she sews you back together smile lopsided and wrong down to your bones. destruction does not come fast, is not easy. is quiet and gentle, pulling you apart the way the world ends- a collapse inward, broken doll on joints that could not stand folding, paper with edges creased and a note that says i love you as she makes and remakes you in the shape of her own destruction. just as she is yours. what beautiful creatures we must be, harbingers of ruination and makers of our own destruction.

war is just a violent euthanasia

lay me to sleep with your eyes like minefields and blood painting the grass red. behind those gun barrels are mother's children and father's sons, daughters, men and women. shoot to kill and wait until you see the whites of their eyes, the explosions behind their eyelids on the islands of violence because the war you fight outside is exactly the same as you fight on the inside- guns don't kill people people kill people and people kill themselves, blow their brains to bits on the walls behind them because they can't stand the walls inside them. war is not courageous and it must always be done out of sight or else everyone might see the truth that every gun hides a person dying on the inside and every bullet you fire has been on its way since the moment you were born, the moment you began to survive. you were born to survive and made into existence, a creation of suffering and torment in the way that the only way you can survive is by killing someone else. how do you live with yourself? you don't. too many guns and too many knives, so much pain hidden on the inside. guns were made to kill but please, not you. please, God, not you.

mother, i am stupid

(nietzsche’s horse’s eyes pt. two) the eyes that reflected a field of fallen horses, the absent recognition of cruelty. the eyes like empty vacant houses and somewhere, quietly, a child calling out if anyone is home. the eyes that saw too much within the body that bore too much containing the mind that knew too much, that had to live with the knowing. look into the eyes of every victim and every animal and you will see the same dull resignation to a fate they think they deserve. the eyes turned blind, clouded with acceptance that has not been earned. with what else could we see kindness if not for the lack of it?

what kind of person are you?

he said what's wrong? i don't know, i'm just not much of a morning person. it's not the morning, he said gently. oh, well i suppose i'm not much of an afternoon person then either. but you're not a night person, he said. i know that much. well i'm not much of a person in general, i think.