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There was one damn moment, in the filial revolt of our youth, wished out of the coin pond, in which we had faith that we could do great things. Placing scaffolding against the soft skin of your ribs. Entwining the ligaments of our fingers together like bleeding twine. The print of my lips on seven glasses in an uptown bar, rotting right off the rim with traces of fluoride from the ice. A saint caught my scent and followed me home, while pigs and oxen ate up your bones. Headfirst into the china shop, bitching about the direction in which the world turns. This will never stop, not fast enough to keep it safe. So they'll lop off my hands for stealing your time, they'll reunite me with this guillotine of mine.


So spread out your artifacts across newly swept floors, build a spider's web of memories that leave you sad and bored. We must be shattered like clay pots filled with blood. It's our place in life to be the ghosts of the flood. Haunting fog rolling across the green, mourning phantom limbs, itching like we're fiends. Cut the rope, smear the red, rip the tongue right from my fucking head. Before I speak and I fail, grab the wolf, though he's old, right by his wagging tail.


I was burned at the stake for my love, a heretic with big words and charred lungs. With several gods bearing down on my feet, to keep me on the roof, to never let me leave. May the skyline turn to dust before I die, may the rain fall heavy when you cry. This world will know your pain, but not mine. Your lips sucked the green from my eyes. Wallpaper your caverns with mismatched dresses, pictures of men you've forgotten but hate, letters written line by dead line, a love you can have is a love that can't sate. What a palette you've come to acquire, when everything you taste reminds you of blood or burnt wire. The only morsels you savor are the ones you can't eat, you're allergic to the space between your bed and the sheets. 


I'm a mongrel, I'm a man, I'm the dogs that shred the lamb. I am bitter, I am blessed, and you can bury me with the rest. Draw a line, with red twine, make a map of bastard boys, make us sacred, make us cursed, make us ghosts with capillaries burst. Never trust the voice inside of yourself, never trust how you sound. You can skin the sheep, you can wear the wool, it won't matter if you're wolf or hound. I could give you a throat full of gold, I could tell the devils my soul's been sold, but everything I loved is gullet bound.


It's our place in life to be found alone, it's our place in hell to be burnt but cold, it's our gift in death to shed our regret, it was my mistake in the night to believe in your breath. 

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Parabolic // Traumatic

Mitochondrial infractions mutating marbled messes of eyes

Synthetic // Parasitic

The tapeworm is wrapping around the artery

Lethargic // Tragic

This console is temporarily unavailable

Karmic // Hidrotic

Softest lips, avian bones, bitter heart, bled alone

Magnetic // Lordotic

Horses bleached white in the salt and the sun

Arthritic // Pneumatic

I can hear the yellow singing behind locked doors

Polybasic // Instrinsic

Marching to my death with a drink in my hand

Carcinogenic // Optic

Switching tracks in the synapses to trick my...

I stand alone on the front porch pantomiming a song

And I think that she'll hate the way that I smoke cigarettes

And the way I pick at my fingernails when I'm nervous

And the way I can't keep my hands from shaking

And the way I snore because it's involuntary

She'll despise the way I talk about 80's films

And the way I can't keep my knees from tapping to music

Or the way I have to get ready in the same order every day

Or else it feels incomplete

But she might like the way I hold the door

Or the way I'm afraid to reach for her hand

She might think...

by TheSerpentThe... ago
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1702

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Some days it will be easier and others not at all, but you are always...

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Fuck you, kid. You're the one that got us into this mess.

Sincerely,

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Dear little-me,

I'm watching the bridges you fought so hard to build crumble with neglect as I hold a gallon of petrol and a box of matches. I want you to know that all your effort brought me a handful of sweet memories and a heartful of ache, and I am starting to think that it wasn't worth it. I'm sorry.

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I’ve been thinking about you lately — the way your imagination sparks and ignites newfangled, wild ideas; the way you unapologetically laugh at your own jokes. I miss those things about you. I miss that bulletproof enthusiasm and genuine joy.

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