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nwI feel like I am always hushing and hushed with you
and now my throat needs a war built on all levels of speech.
To speak and slur and whisper secrets
disguised by itself, and one with demise.
Your eyes hold galaxies of truth
dust patterns that spread out and become the red veins in the whites of your eyes.
The blood -red and vast when it leaves your body
and the soul that becomes known when you are gone.
your native words sound better- the way they flow is soft like snow/ and melting so
your made up words make you up to me-
and you become a tall mountain tree that filters the winds secrets
adding your own when they pass through your green branches and needle leaves.
you remind me of something, and I'm so empty.
your May memory fills me with water and sun.
but long gone you are
i even dreamed that you were dead
dark pits of dirt are being built up slowly into a future.
Beginning under the level land//
Titled trees reach for you, the winds past pushed them to yo
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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