lazy days and quiet haze @oceangl1tter - Tumblr Blog

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NSFMBE (not safe for my burdened eyes)

The pool bathroom, pressed against the wall and her *** strewn across the faucet. You learned the move somewhere online, cushioning the back of her head with the palm of your hand. It feels used, tasteless, clear, the thrill washed out from the idea of her exposed back stamping germs from the gridded surface, public and dirty, disgusting. You call it a metaphor for why you weren't together. You ask her what others would think if they knew what she did and she shrugs. You pretend it was pleasure and tell her to put her shirt back on. You peek through the crack of the bathroom door to survey the outside, walk ahead of her, passing the vacant washing machines, and you quietly lay the door shut.

This repeats cyclically, all of it magnetic, repulsive, and somewhere in-between, safe comfort.

The first time you try on **********, it makes your skin lurch (she says it's seductive), like the shutter of a film camera capturing an animal's eyes in fright. You can't see what she sees or better yet, you can't control it. Sometimes you wish she didn't see you for who you were, sometimes you wish you were a *** so you could be that *** who breaks a ****'s heart— like it's expected, a natural part of the plot; turns out you were never part of the story, you could never leave because you were never in it in the first place. Instead, your neck is guttered with roses, sick with it, each petal falling off. You take it off and tell her to wear it instead; She loves not knowing, a vanishing in a shutter (a shudder). You habitate the crevice unlooked, the gap relapsed. You are addicted to infinite. You are addicted to disappearing.

#mystuff

first rate evaporating

I thought meaning would evaporate once it left my mouth://

I wipe the birdsong off my lips, carry the fire somewhere canine, I am the knife; I am the knife and much more; I am the wound and much more; I was a hearatache inside out, I am a heartache, how much? I am the nail polish of all of my past lovers. I wield every lost word and every last mother. I am the end of moontime. I am the time you learned. I am the word you placed. I am the word you come to know. I am the toe nail in the sky. I am the carving of a wall. I am the crying in a lake. I am your reaching. You are reaching for me. I am reaching for you. I am the hurting in between. I am the river you washed your feet in. I am your last breath. I am what you see in your eyes. I am the water you were bathed in. I am the call at 9. I am your name being called.

#mystuff

so why did no one tell me picasso was an asshole

gene://

there is no translation for a timeline ripped from its seams the sewing kit of a tendered jean my mother and i have the same eyes so i know when she cries at night the same

reasons why i am in san francisco mouthing off a history of a past life on a bench i weep visions in another on a bench i weep visions with another on a bench i weep visions of another

"you know i'm here", in another place, time is forever, we are late for the concert and we spend the bus ride uncounting our seconds.

Negative space is just a whole note rest.

Contour: and in love://

I will not give my life to something I can only dream of in lines: concept:

color is steam off the sidewalk grate: every word is a mark on paper:

fingers through little boxes: a note of description slipped between: I can only see what I know: I have been the observed and observer:

Underwater, under gravel, sound is: vibrations of feet (not the feet) and sewer tides rise: (only because the moon said so).

There is no image: there is knowing

Dream this Sand, the color of fuschia, every twinkled grain is a granule of your mother's greatest pink feathered scarf; the water, a tempered blue rises and bubbles white foam in and back against the rocks.

Now picture this: The last time you were at a beach, no, the beach.

the sand, the water, the sky.

Close your eyes

&:

There is neither dream nor picture. Every word is empty, mark on paper. Fill in the gaps with knowing.

Know this: The sand: the color of your next home;

The water: tugs at your earlobes; The sky: you have never looked up long enough to know

in lines: vision: what's left over: the feelings of having seen and dreamed: steam off the sidewalk grate,

note of confession slipped between.

#mystuff