#alterlifepress

[igaers]

I've just passed the point of no return. I'm at that dot, my safety, my submission. Everything I say I'm not, everything I say I am, doesn't matter. I am... a few chemical elements, arranged purely by chance. I am... solely whatever I decide to be at this turn of consciousness, and once it finishes and I flicker to the next one, I'm what I decide to be now. 

[isas-bell]

june's

holding hands open, a mere slit to hasp those in between relucent notches whisper rain. your timbre is lithe, these days dimmed to a numb. only the bird with its beak in the willow is a sole love-hymn, to a junes end.

[isas-bell]

to nights first spark

warm is a sleeping melody. under husks of cold skin.

as dusk reflects on dewy grass. while tender woolen are the fleas, that nourish on a lamm.    newly born under no light but stars. the first lambent; this nightlight is only bespangled sky.

[isas-bell]

for you/

under fuchsia light- ning the stars drop;

meteor showers collapsing, as expired wishes written on grass fade out into sultry. the nights humming keeps ever slipping into enraptured ears, as junebugs try to find the other twin in flight.

all are searching, with a buttoned up heart.

[igaers]

I'm an easy boundary to push. I'm breakable and weak. I'm bone and skin. I'm bag of gunshot wounds and pure emotion, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. There's nothing and no one I can't stop this for, not even myself, even if I wanted to and I think that even if I could, I think I'd not do it. Because I feed off my own anger. I push myself through it. Like I break, I shatter; like I'm hurt, I kill. Like I'm sucker-punched I can, too, make a knife pierce pumping muscle. I'm breakable but because I am fucking breakable and broken already my edges can cut and will cut and not a single fuck will I give when your eyes melt with the acid I bleed or when you jaw parts between my fingers. There's nothing more dangerously explosive than a man who's been thrown bombs at since the day he was born. 

[igaers]

word vomit

I'm rotten. In. Rotting within the shattered mangled and bloody corpse of once-alive words. Relishing in my dirty fingernails, the meaty thumb, the dry skin pulled in the shape of teeth. I have been eating poetry. Poetry has been eating me. My tongue has hovered and rolled sweetly over every single syllable, lullaby-like, and a hammer has cracked my skull senseless—tactlessly, devoid of any sort of beginning or full stop; kissing, caressing my sweaty forehead and biting my bottom lip with playful anticipation. Hitting my ribs with blunt-ed objects and impacting thickly against a sack of flesh and organs. A momentum of black and whiteness, noise instilled into waves, chords straining into noises, grinding like hips against detached laps. Dirty wordings for the purest moments, wherein I lie and am given love and I throw it away because I don't see the use of it. It's a hit and a missed kiss, the description of an incomplete sentence and the following regret. Hot spit dripping from my chin and the waves coming back to me, tensing me like a whip. Crude verses have shaken me pale and green, kissed and hit, taken my sleep, replaced it with helplessness; have packaged up and sold my limbs; have made me sick and stink of disease. I lie truthfully in my remains, not-bad-not-good-either and spill the words back in the silhouette of repulsive. Offensive, vulgar and vile. Eyeballs snatched out of blind kids.

[igaers]

History repeats itself, somebody says. History is a stone I stumble on more than once every few lifetimes. I go back to making the same mistake, and contrary to popular belief, I don't fail better. I think of green eyes. 

It's about a specific trouble. How he hung on to me like a drug, pursuing the high I was no longer willing to give him. I got away from him, left him to rot and die with no remorse, thinking of self-preservation. Giving up on him is one of the worst things I have done, yet I remain regret-free. 

But I gave him hope. He came to me and I let him touch me; I dragged him and gave in to his lithe voice, the muscles on his back, his tongue meandering, exploring me intently. He is codependent yet he is tantalizing, poisonous to the core. His lips felt my pulse and his hands delved into it deeper, whispering luscious little words I was too weak to say not to. He was willing to give so I grew willing to take, blinded by--I can't say it without looking away--the gluttony. How good he was at pleasing. So I took advantage of him. I thought of the green eyes, wanton and eager for it, growing darker and sleepless, like what I had would soothe him. 

We groped for each other on backstairs or parked cars like shameful youths. He was volatile and all I wanted was his happiness, giving up on mine, feeding him warmth whenever he whined for it. That was the bond we had, nothing more. He thought he loved me, but if it was love it wasn't one I was willing to subject myself to. There was already a story I did not want to repeat. In his spit-slick bruised lips I did not see home. I saw a quick fix for something too broken. I saw myself reckless. wanting to get his hands filthy, make him an animal like the one I'd become. 

He wasn't ready for that. His soft-spoken words and the whereabouts of his eyes, that lacked any color but the one of his skin, irises filled with doubt and adrenaline. He didn't need that. I saw it despite he didn't. Rose-tinted glass, he didn't see the ache I gave him, but I did. So I got away. History repeats itself but it doesn't need to, anymore, for me. 

[igaers]

lion man's unfinished speech

I am flickering... undecided, a light-bulb that goes on and off, on and off, on and off, about many things I do not care to count.  About myself and others', and others' connection to me. About the broken glass beneath my feet, and how I stomp on it, thinking of you or thinking of him. I lie. On and off, on and off, off to paint my hands red little stripes again.

I can't be monochrome. A single pigment isn't enough for me. So I paint myself again, because I'm an unreliable narrator, and the little stripes are busted knuckles that have gradually escalated, until I find myself pouring. I have beat myself at my own game. I have seen every layer of skin I wear as lazy armor. I have seen the bone, white-ish and weak, weak and broken. I've hemorrhaged on myself and inside myself, lying down on the bulb's remains. Lying down on the dark, flickering, being my only one light. My only one. My dearest companion, that doesn't leave me, despite I do. 

There's no conclusion, no final thought. I'm striped, half-done, gazing at my surroundings, lost.