bleed into me

a writing dump do not use anything here without my permission. 

[sehnsuchtes]

if we are 70% water i must be all sea leagues of lapping quiet and salt tonight my waters barely beat the shores still and silent aching deadwater i can feel the canyons of my ribs, dripping soft washed white by a life that takes and takes and takes this ache rings true as the faintest of pulses as the only real indication of life

h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

more days than less now i'm sure i'm okay i check my chest lips, arms and neck for signs of fissure and sometimes the fingers i pull back are stinging sliced anew, holding  red pearls and rubies but more days than less i'm sure i'm okay i'm sure until someone calls me beautiful referring to the fleeting fake presentation of  flesh, holding bone and i am back to hearing every  leaf fall in autumn i am back  to tasting gunpowder feeling rotten roots push through my molars i am back in that little yellow closet more held than holding on more prey than praying i am back and i fall apart

more days // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

picture this: the sun makes gods of us, its fumbling children, worshipping every lock of our hair golden flax waving down the sides of your crown my curls of ebony reaching for what yours cannot defying gravity for a touch of heaven in this glowing wonderland of what could be memory talk is easy your back is a promise often punctuated by glances backwards i follow happily trusting its width trusting

1/?  // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

her body hurt for the without of him, it hurt for the with.  yet no one had ever said medicine was supposed to go down easy – it was always supposed to be clenched teeth and sweating palms, wasn’t it?

h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

i think about death  the way you think about: groceries, cleaning, & the poem to me  you’ll never finish  carelessly, in passing three bottles of wine around my cooling head in place of the son, the father and the holy spirit lazily, dusky legs poking from the window of a driver whipping through monoxide trails  and garage gallows simply from the waters from which i came under the moon under the stars (the river whispers her secrets i just hear childhood lullabies) i think about death  with an idle playfulness and remember life  with a burning, low ball hunger i think about death and i wonder if he thinks about me

WHAT IF THE DANSE MACABRE IS A SLOW TWO-STEP? // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

i can hear the waves of the oceans they crossed in every sigh of my mother so i forgive again and again and again each anchor tied to my wrists whenever i mention how i am exactly what they didn't abandon home for

despaira 

[inkskinned]

when you live in a house that suffocates you, the joke is that you go crazy in college. dancing on tables, smoking weed every weekday. you’ll settle down eventually.

the joke is that you don’t know who you are without rules. that people out here don’t live by the standards you’re used to. that not everyone is out to hurt you. people here don’t understand why you flinch when plates drop. don’t get why you’re always asking if they really want to be friends or not. it’s a cute punchline. are you the type to do your homework because someone made you? or because the anxiety in your throat is trying to strangle you? how much of your personality is based on being perfect, just in case? it’s funny when you drink too much and lie yourself to waste. see, you needed those rules. they kept you in place.

a black flower is blooming in the part of your garden you never look at. you are all thorns. out here, people say strict parenting allows for you to reach your potential. you are so young and still so, so, so old. you feel your bones grow mold. out here, people say: see? isn’t that funny? daddy issues. not good with down time. when she gets drunk she always cries.

see? isn’t that funny? she puts anything into her body to stop the hurt. sex, drugs, too much coffee. really, without that house, who would she be?

[sehnsuchtes]

[sehnsuchtes]

[sehnsuchtes]

you look at me and i remember, eyes watering, stars swallow planets whole --  sense of mercy lost, disintegrated, by the heat of brash, cruel, & beautiful glory.

ASTRONOMY LESSONS (1/??) // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

i need comfort like i need air i need reassurances sighed into my hair before i pluck and tear and rip each and every strand off my head i need hands over my own firm and forgiving before the nails start to peel because i'm clawing clawing clawing at every thought at every second  i stand in the shower and i scrape and i clean and i pray and i panic but no matter what i do i feel filthy they say in death there is rebirth but i'm nothing but a dead girl walking beauty rotting black and falling to the ground and turning into nothing nothing nothing am i nothing? today i crouched on the floor at work at the place i love and held my head and began to cry i held my head in my hands the way i wished someone would until i began to feel guilty for wanting and needing and being and now here i am again gasping on the guilt and greed that isn't my own quaking in a big bed alone and unwanted

i’ve wanted to puke for days now // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

OH BABY GIRL you've always worn your heart like laurels cheeks bloodied and ashamed by the fact that there was no honour in baring your feelings red, raw and sharp for the world to see BUT IN THIS YOU'RE WRONG there's a power to you dear queen of hearts the sort of bravery that bleeds into tender touches and tears down walls of stone with the gentleness of the final rains of spring: a soft sigh, green and giving a series of sweet murmurings promising of gentler beginnings.

“queen of hearts” // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

HER: sometimes people look at me and i can feel their pupils sliding all over me, like black, frostbitten fingers.  just touching everything but anything that matters -- the idle laugh stuck at the back of my throat or a second's embarrassment in my cheek, all red and hot.  just touching.  never feeling.  groping and twisting what isn't theirs for a moment's pleasure -- and, you know, sometimes, it makes it feel so sick i stop breathing, i just stop.  but then, i see you looking at me, and it's like spring just sighs on my face, because all i wanna do is open right up in the cup of your palm.  blossom, maybe, into some pretty little flower -- no, fuck that, fuck that, i wanna creep up your arm like a vine and take you by the throat.  i wanna be so close i can hear your blood humming for fear of it, so close that i forget where i end and you begin.

LOOKING // h.b.

[nosebleedclub]

Discussion 5/6/16

1. Birth of a songbird 2. Tropical flower garden 3. Summer crush 4. Tennis 5. Inherited

[sehnsuchtes]

1.  sometimes she wonders if a stork had really dropped her off, and in doing so, had left her in the wrong home.  her growing up consisted of turned backs and utterances for her to hush, and so the words she’d yet to say sat under her tongue, piling up as the years whipped by.  time tempers them into something boiling, so hot that her jaw pops open, dropping nothing but snippets of song.

2. through the window of memory, if i squint hard enough, i can see the old windowsill of our second apartment where my mother grew a variety of herbs.  the splash of green was a tropical treasure in a small flat whose palettes ranged from grey to white, and i made a bad habit of climbing onto the counter to dig my fingerprints into the soil.  i loved doing this, it made me feel -- despite the fact we were nothing but a family suspended in a concrete jungle -- like i had roots.  

3. freckles.  they tenderly trace the canvas of your cheek, dripping down to the back of your neck and under the collar of your shirt, as if to remind me that you aren't a mere star, but a galaxy in the making.  in the making, because you touch me and it’s as hot as nuclear fission.  in the making, because the summer sun doesn't make me feel as brilliant as your laugh does.  in the making, because not a day goes by where i don’t feel more and more of me being lost to your pull.

4. tennis is a sport where we’re both are too likely to make a wreck of each other, so we make plans to break into the local tennis court instead.  the cool of the green flooring beneath us and the adrenaline from our supposed daredevilry makes a meal of bbq chips and flat soda seem like a feast for kings, and we are both more than willing to play pretend.

5. they say i have my daddy’s eyes, dark and deep.  i say i don’t see it -- they catch light and life differently.  my gaze is all wide wonder and eager embrace, but i look into his and i see closed doors and an exhaustion i hope never finds me.  i say i have my daddy’s temper, red and raging.  he says he doesn’t see it -- it’s the devil in me, and he is a holy, holy man.  he dips his fingers in holy water and anoints his forehead before reaching for my face.  i flinch, remembering when these gentle fingers touched it last, then balled into fists.  peace settles into his features and trickles out of mine.

 he says i have my mother’s stupid tendency to never forget.

[sehnsuchtes]

i close my eyes, i sleep i sleep pressing lids tight as if my memories and dreams are fruit with soft skins i can bruise black.

forget // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

3 am reads  like cupped palms holding cheeks overflowing. 3 am reads  like the lovestory of two heads pressed together. 3 am reads of tilted half eternities and their ache what does it mean to have half of forever? half full, half empty, entirely incomplete?

3am // h.b.

[sehnsuchtes]

close your eyes and remember close your eyes and remember close your eyes and remember i. when you were greedy and lovely outstretched fingers ready to grab all the blue off the big, endless sky when you believed in magic in prayer, in believing itself and crafted cathedrals out of caresses soft and willing to take and bend for even burdens as grand as atlas’ remember ii. when you were loved and lovely twirled and tossed between the hold of the people who tore down your bedposts so you wouldn’t even dream of the monsters who could be resting underneath strawberry jam and tall glasses of milk the ragged rock of your mother’s cintas your favourite lullaby a bone beaten lullaby remember iii. when you loved and were lovely mad, more than willing to plant flowers in your lungs so they would bloom resting on your tongue and choking you if it meant that he’d call you pretty if it meant that he’d call you pretty you would’ve tugged down the stars and shoved them into your eyes and you would’ve burned baby and you did remember?

songs for semele // h.b.