Oct 6, 2016
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Purple
Did an audio. Picked a title.
Original text post: http://timberclove.tumblr.com/post/121858504867/4-1-15
wrist ink
watching ballerinas touch the bottoms of their feet. pretending i have perfect penmanship, calling out the curve of their wrists (against the air, the way they flutter like ribbons caught in a barren branch) that my personality will fold your name into quadrants for my tongue to slip unnoticed into conversation, that we may tilt our own wrists one to thorns, one to the cream, and have the other choose which one we lick.
an ink guided by fortune and also by the intent of my fingers in the lancing of your spine.
tell me how pale i am and then tell me how pale i feel even in the dark.
because I want you to write me into your bedsheets, bend back the creases, split my skin upon a seam and tug until the whites are red and the blacks are blue.
i never want to see the sun again
when you are near me. i don't even have to touch my toes to feel like a wind-tossed, discarded thing of past beauty
Small
I don't care to do anything at all, these days.
I care to do things I've never had the notion for before,
such as
enjoy the company of strangers with the potential for more,
and collect in dissopated corners the small remnants of my faith
for two
and divide, elongate, fracture, and stab
the hope left in this silly plot.
Because I've had enough of not
having enough
just so you can feel secure.
Lying about the symmetry, we walk crookedly to the spaces, the gaps between our fingers, between our teeth-- lying in the open, wind fingering the holes in our apologies and our anatomy.
Blank
Order me to move along, And I will defy you. Ask me to join you on your path, And I might surprise you. This only coincides, With our current statements. I regret the oath I've taken And strung around my neck. You are enough as you are, But lacking in what you allow. How am I to cross shadows, weave my way back to the start --when we continue to be so far apart in mind and value?