I hate you.

Cannot sing, cannot speak,

Cannot type, cannot create.

You have their skin beneath your nails

And drink cool tap water from their kisses

And they haunt you.

Little ghost child, haunted by humans,

Reverse c-section, you are…?

A million aborted babies,

A little aborted

Normal, perfect 

Child and instead she got

A ghost, a wailing, screaming 

Redfaced and shrieking at the world, 

You came in, tore the fabrics of time itself,

Tore open the universes and your breath 

Was useless.

Come back to me, come back to my ashes,

To my dust, this world is no place for

A misshapen child.

You write, 

Less a princess, more a minstrel,

Hoping that they will see,

Hoping that your silly songs will

Make it to the reaches of knights and princes.

Pathetic, useless being 

Spineless in its core and 

You write, 

With no intention to write meaning

With more intention to write your way into

Lives, to write your way into favor,

To write your way into

Arms.

We warn you against being in love. We have been there, at least thrice, and it is the most dangerous state a being can be in. It is sacrifice, it is total idiocy, it is something that only the most foolish and stupid find themselves wandering into again and again and again.

To be in love is cutting yourself in half or in thirds or in many, many pieces. To be in love is forgetting one side of yourself in favor of filling that emptiness with another. To be in love is becoming a sacrifical lamb, ready to die, ready to mar, ready to run into the depths of Hell to prove a feeling that will likely fall from beneath you.

To be in love is having wings. To guide you through the world, to hold you between them tightly, to be frail and elegant and break apart in an instance. To wrap your eyes from the world so you cannot see what a fatal realm you’re in, trembling beyond your fingertips, outstretched, unknowing.

To be in love is to be ready for forever. To pledge terrible, ridiculous things for someone else. To give yourself entirely. To take your trust and your body and your soul and your mind and lay them bear, shuddering, at the top of a pyre, and never wonder what happens after that. To be prepared for the many, many dreams you will think up, fragile, pretty things, to be prepared for them to transpire soon, soon.

To be in love is to touch the spirit. To imagine your writhing souls conjoining somewhere between the distance. To feel those souls swirling together in carnal mixes when you are together, when you are together but apart, no matter the millimeters or miles it will occur in vile fits. 

To be in love is trust.

And trust is hurt.

I beg you not to trust.

(Source: nematocyst)

(Source: nematocyst)

(Source: nematocyst)

(Source: nematocyst)

(Source: nematocyst)

For the first time I saw Autumn,

Wild, cackling Autumn,

Tumbling down the empty branches,

Letting down a golden, rusting, blazing mane.

Starving trees sinking beasty claws

Into his ribcage,

Out of his heart.

He breathes with the wind

The red sting after a harsh gust

And his eyes are the orbs of harvest moon.

For the first time I saw Autumn,

He awoke me from Summery slumber

And gobbled Spring’s guts

From Mother Earth.

I feel like a grounded pigeon.