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you have snakes for hands

and if there’s a kiss after the last one

you will have ruined me.

promise to ruin me

shush i didn’t say that.

serpent life

you grow moss on everything you like.

you need some coldness to place yourself into.

a kiss is just saliva,

sour and repeatable.

where does my madness come from?

why’s your mouth a hexed thing?

is to kiss to drink?

is a kiss a watered down bane

from under your tongue

fermenting while you chew

a thing of beauty waiting to belong

to be drunk as dark wine?

only it doesn’t truly wait.

so to kiss is to bruise.

i said a wrong thing,

i assumed the romantic.

you spit out blood and silence,

never wine.

so i get drunk merely on the airs around you,

a feather,

an angel,

a lightweight,

a crime. drunkenness. a dead bird impaled on an iron fence. a white wall. something ugly. something transient, breathe to forget me. pale green mist, a small black thing. bellyaches will go away with time. nothing. fake gods dressed in dusk. nothing. cold nights that smell of tongues chewed to blood. your fingers. my legs. scratches, casual sin to violent sin to doubt to blood to rot. rot is still desire. a small savage, a biting creature. pink lips mouthing my own death. and down my throat - a wet void, forest blackness; moths and behemoths wasting away. like grass grows bravely just to be stepped on. once upon a time i was a firefly and you held me in your hands. you’re not fazed now, you’ve been gutted again. shame, sweat, it’s spring, so it’s suicide. junkyard rats. stand in the rain, let it spit on your wounds, we’re at war with the sky. your legs. my lungs. divinity in a plastic cup. jaded wanting. there’s nowhere to go. don’t die, give me back my guts but keep the worms. nothing. something ugly. tired of hope. hope persists, she’s a cockroach and someday i’ll thank her. ants and screams and how unfair. the pillow’s where we die. blow out the candle. nothing. the best of me is just a hole. just how deep? it tingles still and i’m blue, how shallow it turned out to be. a fickle thing, a transient flicker, i bit my lip, i admit, a self-played piano medley on a cross-hatched fate. you hate words it seems, you speak in graphite. night wind and Hello you’s and ringing in my ears. i am the songs they play in the elevator to heaven. please mind the cloudscape. everything, a dream. something ugly, something no. it sings so it can’t be evil. simply starve this hunger out. i try. i try. my heart is covered in ulcers. a lump of regret in me so i can’t swallow your choices. i’ve started to swallow, defeat is not humiliating. it’s waste, it’s underwhelming. do as i say, the gods of sleep awaken for a few seconds every time you light a cig, it’s dark, there’s no hurt in the tree bark. hide in the tree. hide in the tree. i’ll follow. hide in the tree and go first, we know i don’t trust you. we know that i trust you. these violent delights... and so it goes. eve’s ladder, pictures of us, jinxed laughter. crack your knuckles in my mouth and i’ll decide if it’s medicine. hold you tight. your name in the bathroom mirror. my name on the bus window a steamy proof i existed. we have burned through time at the tips of each other’s fingers. if i’m an angel is that why you kill me so slowly. maybe the best of me is a deep hole after all, some tube to the core of earth where a door is waiting for me to go back home - to flame, to magma, to magic, to devotion, to devils worse than you but they are needy of my touch. you’re not. a shivering, far away, the tunnel, tram tracks, look back - is a tram coming? only looked once, then stared at you. we know that i trust you. farewell to flesh, but hope’s a cockroach. forgotten, don’t need this forgotten. healed, unbruised, spat out, outgrown, chewed, muddled, frozen, a memory. i need serpent moss and tape for the shards. morning light and dewdrop eyes and taste of metal spikes and we fell asleep, i left.

you have snakes for hands

and there was a kiss after the last one

and you have ruined me.

#angellife #diary #textpost

#poem #you #my writing #spilled ink #summer #in case this winter kills me #proof we were there in time

the tiger in the sky part 1

there is a big flying tiger in the sky. it’s an otherwordly being (probably linked to a plane of existence a few realms away from ours, but somehow having found a way to spend its darks on Earth ), controversially seen by people of any age but kids. it’s off white when visible and also off white when unvisible, only a see-through shade of off white. it resembles a chinese dragon in its liquid elegance, and water in the way it swims among the flickers. anyone who has ever seen it describes it as a melted apparition, the brightest and sharpest thing you’ll ever see, and the blurriest and vaguest memory you’ll ever have.

it resides in the skies above the balkan peninsula in eastern europe, above all the corroded wrought-iron fences, stray cats and dogs with a hundred names, and ivy-covered ramshackled houses, neatly snuggled into a seemingly random urban pattern. but the tiger in the skies reads the houses like we people attempt to read the stars, only it does a much better job, or well, at least since he is a lonesome creature in a lonesome sky, there is no one up there telling him his data is non-empirical.

as far as we know, it appears sporadically, and when it does, it weaves patterns with its tail and bites the sky apart. whoever is awake at the time to see it wakes no one up and instead just watches as the sky loses its stars only to regain them again.

as far as history will let us know, the tiger might have always been up in the skies or might have appeared a few years ago. no one ever writes about it. when one sees the tiger, one feels no pragmatic need to do anything. instead they plunge into a visceral hole they will have no recollections of, and will never be able to remember why exactly life made so much sense at that moment. therefore no one has ever bothered with recording it on camera (as far as we’re concerned, it might not even appear on tape. i personally find it insignificant whether it is containable in the pixel and am much more invested in finding why it isn’t in the brain)

but there is something so ancient in the movements of the tiger tide that it makes you wonder if orpheus ever sung lullabies to it and whether old christians remember being baptised under its jaws.

the lore of the off-white tiger stretches from coldest Moesia to hottest Thrace and i could never tire from telling it. but right now i’m writing a story of another kind.

when i was 12, i saw the off-white tiger in the sky for the first time. i was foraging for clothes in my grandma’s nylon bags in the attic in the hopes of finding some retro piece, a hidden gem, when i spotted a startlingly white silhoutte in the sky. through the dusty window of out slanted attic, it resembled a cloud, only somehow sharper. i spent the night staring at it, telling myself

this is it, this is it, this is what makes me human.

the rest is a blur. i do not remember what made me human. am i human still? i don’t know what i meant by that, but i’m assuming yes, just not as bright of a human as i took myself to be.

i awoke the next morning lying iamong the nylon bags with a scarf wound round my ankle and a dead cockroach by my head having made the texture of the corduroy jacket its grave. the radio was blasting a song by evanescence but i didn’t remember turning it on. i lay there for a few minutes and hummed along the call-me-when-you’re-sober chorus.

#mine #story #writing #diary #writers on tumblr

here i am, in a blue tram, blue and black, yellow tracks, dayless sofia in its sunless windy coldness. i have a notebook in my lap, a pageful of ugly scribbles. a boar, a chimneyless house, a heart, a wounded angel.

another summer’s passed by. my feet are itching to run, my head is itching to be smarter with every passing thought, my heart is just wallowing in pity again, aware of its fickle nature. but as i wrote in a letter once, true happiness couldn’t care less about its own mortality. it just bleeds through time proudly. sees the clock and smashes it. fickle yes, reckless indeed, transient inevitably. and with every skipped heartbeat and with every screech of the tram tracks i untruthfully repeat under my nose:

i’ve never been happy.

then how could i know anything about it? i’ve seen enough happiness, then, to draw my conclusions about it, but not to remember the flesh of it, to feel the iron of its blood on my tongue.

another summer’s passed by. i filled it with empty laughs and faux productivity, the same chord progression over and over again but with hoarser vocals every week, something cold for me to remember from the fiery months. i gave birth to moths and tucked them to bed. they never crawled out and i knew i had bore yet another death.

i mutter nonsense under my breath and the tram-driver eyes me in the rear view mirror. or whatever type of mirror that is. an eerie cloak of dragonflies burns through the texture of the air around him and i know if i were to try and talk to him, he would park the tram and burst out like a supernova. i could never endager public safety like that.

i conjure some fake otherwordly scenario up in my head and, as always, project my existential anxiety into a alluring person with a calming smile and impeccable understanding of human nature. in my head, i’m myself as i wish to be, and that’s the true romance. love has never worked for me in real life because i don’t know how not to be a cotton stencil reshaped and recoloured by each and every passing person. i mock weakness in fear to admit it. but of course i am weak. it’s what makes the rare instance of being fierce, defiant and unapologetic so euphoric. the callous of the weak, i think, at some point exceeds the natural resillience of the bold.

that’s what i am outside of my head. smudged by associations. polluted by connotations. erased by insecurities. reshaped into oblivion by failed attempts at keeping my soul intact. drowned by my other self, the one that needs reminders to disappear (forever).

i have been scribbling for another 5 minutes, i note, as my alarm for 22:26 comes up silently. it’s the one right after 22:21 and right before 22:31.