her brow swallows weary eyes in my direction while she beckons you in. i'm teeth and lymph nodes, and the tabletop knows this. you know this, yet there is never as much violence between us as i would hope for. now my tears are leaking out of me, not very humble. you are the center of where i am, how i am, when i am. the sky beats me into singularity and i figure i should be grateful for it.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
two quick taps and a breaking and it's your first meal of the new year; 15:03 p.m. blinks at you from the stovetop. you've spent the day with heavy eyes, thinking about how fireworks echo and wondering if that's why you dreamt about getting shot at.
as you tear apart spinach, mind absent, gears turn ghosts of your lichen-covered conscience. your sister asked you to brainstorm a tattoo a month ago and you still haven't replied; how can you continue when you open the cutlery drawer and expect to find tomatoes when you forget to even text back?
when you don't sort through photos until six months after the fact, sometimes you wish you had a little brother. then you remember he would be grandparentless by five, so you don't expect anything to make sense anymore.
maybe it's their memory that's fuddling yours, fuels your shaking fingers and that tightness in your chest, then the repeated sentences and mumbling and eleven wasted hours in bed. maybe this year will be, can be, different.
today will be a rest day. tomorrow, if it's sunny, you can grow.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
youth is only a synonym for the beginning. at this age, the world can end over and over and over — in reality, it’s beginning again and again and again. clearing the slate can be painful, but sometimes, it’s necessary. we are a funny species if you think about it. my old self would've agreed before i underwent massive change.
it's something like dread or the symbolic overuse of apocalypse metaphors. i have heard it from my ghosts in the dark many times before this moment, and today, it is only the realization that matters. i am slowly becoming something of my previous self that i cannot comprehend.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
when i was about nine i read a book about wormholes. i can't remember why, but it was tragic, scarring, and i could glean no moral from it. mum and i were talking about how five years has gone in a week and i'm not sure how it's even possible at this time of year.
the answer is conclusively unascertainable. the book was fictional (just thought you would want to know) but it left me feeling a little bit like a wet paper bag wrung out to dry, and kept my stomach in the grey claws of "how big is the cosmos? was i horrible in a past life?” for at least a day or so.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
willow bank hollow spills her secrets and there i find myself yearning. i find myself riveted, frozen with the numbing sensation of sensation. there is my discovery/lying in the pit of dusk, the rods and cones of a sunset broken - towers fall, too many flames light with no sympathy.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
gay people fight then fall in love. i suppose now i should try to understand myself a little more -- fill in the blanks, write on the walls. it's a little embarrassing to me.
when i think of it, i am thinking of sweet things. there are many things hidden in this and i will paraphrase again. i can see you across the road, but you still wave to me.
i wouldn't mind. i act like i wouldn't mind.
there is something more to this -- there aren't enough motifs in this one, i think. there aren't many things i'm not willing to confess.
i have been looking for myself when i have been right here all along.
(there is no word for sometimes i am right, sometimes i am wrong, sometimes it is not enough.)
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
call back to the myth of icarus — the boy who flew too close to the sun with manmade wings, the wax on which melted & he plummeted into the sea. this is the hand of apollo, god of the sun, reaching for him: regretful he was too late? vindicated? who the hell knows and who the hell cares?
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
He began to wonder why he had felt uneasy at all. It was like a man wondering in broad daylight why a dream had appeared so terrible to him at night. — Chinua Achebe, Things Fall Apart
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