I am in love with every thing,
and in equal parts i loathe,
and sometimes, when i play with one
of you, my broken dolls. I feel
because i can hate your suffering
and love your joy and pretend
the world works in discernible patterns
and cycles and pretend that i
am a useful sort of god.
that i can make it better than it has
always been. that i can sew
your flesh and soul, and not just
your patchwork clothing.
there are three books, i have
in pairs. three belong to me.
one, belongs to a dead boy.
maybe he loved me, maybe
i was a reason of his death.
the second, belongs to a dead girl.
she did not learn to love from her parents.
i killed her.
The third, belongs to a fool.
She loved it. So much she forgot
she owned it.
It collects dust now.
I wonder, if words,
once uttered, or written
down, ever stop being true.
because you still can’t make
me promises, and I am
maybe, we are more aware
of the universe
than we think.
maybe, prophecy is just
the leftovers- the inevitabilities
we do not want to witness as certain.
the hope, that is easier to fear
And I miss them because they
Can hold me together
When all that’s left is the physical
And I am not paper, because
The paper has been soaked through
And torn, and my limbs
Are coming apart in sticky, meaty
I want a key to your apartment,
all the memories from before you were
I want to know what drove you to carve runes,
where your teenage idealisms came from
-what they were.
I want to smooth your corners, or maybe
you can tell me why you love them
so I can learn to also.
And some days I want to know
All of the whys in the universe
but first, I want to know yours.
The ouroboros was now made
Entirely of knives
It wrapped itself around a world
Where parents broke, and starved their children
And added to itself when in return,
The children continued to listen to their elders.
it is uncertainties catching on fingertips
with their own sort of roughness
it is the owls that want to be flowers
and the girls who want to princesses
and middle-aged men who want to be
anything other than what they turned out as.
it is nooses snagging around necks that think
in dual arguments, unsure what they
are supposed to be talking themselves into
because it feels like a fight both ways.