I dwell in possibility

I feel like screaming.

You grabbed my arm softly and said, “You’re always just leaving…” I could tell you wanted to say more but your voice trailed off like dust. It crumbled into meaningless strings of sounds and fell flat on the linoleum floor. I looked down at your broken pieces and I felt suffocated in the tainted air. My lungs felt crushed by the burden of my sins, and my whole body felt like it was going to implode like a supernova. But no miraculous life would come from my eruption, no deep dark oceans, no violet rays of happiness — just pieces would be left, like your broken words. Meaningless pieces. 

I remember when we were young: too young for responsibility, too careless for caution, too stupid to ask “when are we going to crash?” You’d slip me a pill every night and we’d fly higher than a spaceship. We would scream out to the stars, “God damnit I’m alive.” You’d catch me as I’d come down from my escapade, and you’d whisper a mantra of nothings into my ear as I fell into a trance with your lies. I couldn’t feel the pain anymore. 

One day I climbed up so high that it took me days to come down. I was exhausted with my lack of reality and I let go of the rungs. I toppled all the way down to earth, anticipating your soft arms. I hit the ground so hard; I fell straight the core. 

I burned up like dirty secret. 

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Anonymous asked: You're beautiful.

Thank you very much. You shouldn’t be anonymous with such compliments!

The air smelled like grass and you sipped on your icee intently staring at each shard of ice you ingested. 

“So tell me something I don’t know about you?” you mused. 

I told you about dancing and about the first time I screamed, “fuck.” 

You told me I was rough around the edges, and I told you that you were a pussy. I asked you if you cleaned the floor after I threw salt over my shoulder for good luck, and you said you swore you didn’t. You kissed my cheek and I imagined you mopping that floor.

I know you go to confessional after a night with me. 

I really want to do some sort of collaboration poetry/prose/whatever because I’m feeling utterly uninspired lately. If you’re interested, get at me. 

There are 5,653 things I want to do, 8,752 I have to do to, 235 I’d love to try, and 569 that I’d despise to feel again.