hell on the neck

“that which does not kill us makes us”…weary and paranoid.

involuntarily, my lungs constrict. my life is squeezed into strange locations. so unusual, yet so much paradise in one glance. the handbook is useless…

the face that crowds the mirror is a false premonition pocked like litter in the street, and completely oblivious to its predicament. only the crow’s feet can tell.

“baby, I’d shatter the world for you.” he says to a reflection too brittle for his conviction. he’s got his perfect eyes, but there’s no-one at the wheel, and the ice is fucking thick. 

things will change, but it’s the wait that kills. the smallest happenstance has the sharpest teeth. it’s the weight that disfigures the most common sense. how fickle…so goddamn fickle. ghosts in my teeth and leaves in my hair, the seasons here are irrelevant. heat seeking heat, and cold trading cold. always a catastrophe hidden in the curve of a question mark.

to leave me on the dangle is to leave me for dead. the ghosts make me fit for this awful appointment. it’s the ghosts that make me hateful. 

and, when it’s all gone, the dawn comes to do nothing short of brightly exhibiting everything that is lost. so much that can never be shared. so much that is made null by the lack of offering.

tonight, the moon is afraid. holding court in a corner of the sky not yet known to me. its glittered indigo fingers are visible only to my worst delusions. my throat is a prison of screams. my eyes, a famine mockery. this city is out for my blood. but I’ve been saying that shit for years. too many for sanity. I’ll never fucking write a sober word again.