Smaller Eternities

19 Feb

I found a buried box.

In it, there were candies.


Candies, that tasted like flowers

sweet, like they used to smell.


You were telling me about

the end of of empires, talking


about living underground, unable to wait

for a call, but being able to feel

the Earth, rumble in your bones.


Knowing that there were dragons outside,

knowing, that our miracle was tasting flowers.

Growth Algorithms

17 Feb

They had lost their idea of sunlight

so it came up searching, twisting


Became iron resting on tongues

turning into reaching nerve-shocks

that spidered into limbs


connecting bone and memory to skin.


proving, it too could grow.


12 Feb

I am bruising myself

against the stone your body

has become.


Remembering, stars being

smashed at my feet.


Coating them with poisonous light.

Ice Shards and New Moons

12 Feb

I wonder if they think

when they write

if we have become

so in-bred and self-aware as that.


-is it always this horrid?


I have only ordinary, fragile virtue.

But you yourself should know

that knowledge of ignorance,

of limitation,

is the first step.


we are stains and swells

screaming destruction

crashing against cliff-tops


permanence and enlargement,

scrutiny. Fear us.


You are tired of my sorrows

and I am tired of your indecision.


Is this simply some horrible form

of empathetic link that I am enduring

your sleeplessness in retribution

for my failings?


whose existence I am as unclear of

as the sunbursts behind my eyelids.


because it is dark in here.

not a blindness, or a craze.


but a mere byproduct of this world

that cannot tell me

what is right or wrong


but only what is cold or living.

For the people who live inside robots

7 Feb

the homunculus inside of me has fled.

it is vomiting, sticking its head to the bucket

of its own putrid messes and cycling through

the entirety of its body,


and when I am no longer it,

when I come back to my own skin

I want to pick off each piece of it

fleck by fleck until it is raw

and you have never touched a single inch of it.


and then the barren rawness has me fleeing

urging me to sew myself up inside your skin

until the fey come and take me away.


the escape is a lie, and so is

an answer to whether truth or comfort

is the just and right decision.

For people made of clay and teeth

3 Feb

I was made by gods who were not yours.

We do not share a parentage, a genealogy

a culture.

transparency, a world of air

and lightness can hold corporeality

only in fleeting moments

I can share in your body and lusts.

But I cannot be made of them.

you are blue rolling waves without

the forgiveableness of a dolphin’s form.

I am already claimed.


3 Feb

They are pushing

blue through your skin,

coming in with the snow.

I am rolling against

them with the pads

of my fingers.

It is ringing.

You are silence.


15 Jan

I guess it might have been better

if it was fists, and blood,

and a lack of air.

I too, have hands, can

retaliate in kind, wriggle free

prove myself against those types of things.

The dark isn’t like that.

It isn’t a thing to rage

against. It is an absence.

like a hollow in sheets, or spaces

between fingers that are not

being held.

it is the like the gaps between

my shoulder blades, and ribs

I have been trying to fill since before

I knew other humanoid creatures dreamed of flight.

It is like starvation.

A lesson that teaches you

to hoard and cycle

and share.

because hunger- once it is known,

forcibly, is a feeling

that never leaves.

and when you feel the wind

tickle that sort of emptyness

and you wake from the horrors

of you mind into a reality that doesn’t

exist in that moment because all you

can see is darkness.

Well, no one else deserves that either.

And you hope that bread is hope.

And that they don’t know fists and hands

or locks.


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