Eve: 2 Seconds Post-Bite 

I am made of mistakes and anticipation,

Of regret and hopes of salvation,

Of a kind of loneliness that won’t dissolve,

the kind of guilt that can’t be absolved

 

I am woven of timidness,

Of the inability to decline,

I offer myself to monsters,

In hopes they won’t oblige

 

Because I am scattered everywhere,

I lie in pieces, so thin

And I can’t recall a time content,

In a sentience that feels so grim

 

Yes, I am not now nor then

Nor will I ever be,

I float like dust particles in the air

(The ones that you can scarcely see)

 

And I hurt from the inside out,

I want to scream and cry

I want to be seen and heard and felt

But my body simply lies

My tongue lay limp in my mouth

My eyes submissively recline

I breathe and beg my body cope

But my stubborn lungs decline

 

I am made of paranoia and smoke

Of black thoughts and shame

The sort of jaded soul at which you poke

The sort that’s easy to blame

I am a blend of nausea and withdrawal

Of plague, sickness, and inconclusive reigns

I am a creature that howls and crawls

In the safe shadows under an onyx plain

 

And I am everything I vowed never to become

Everything I claimed to loathe once

I am she who’s pain I mocked before I dared endure

For though knowledge satisfies, it cunningly vanquishes the pure.

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Naught 

craving your hot breath, sticky 

wet, but with feelings too 

All in this time

emersed in it, completely intertwined

Endless, quicker though

because we couldn’t help rushing through

you’re fucking beautiful

and I almost can’t take it 

keep breathing on me, hot and heavy 

drown me 

I need it 

you’re not here though 

and my skin longs for your mouth 

for your hot breath, sticky 

where my mind dreams a thousand delicious dreams,

your absence confines me.

Weakness

Put my finger in the mouth of flames

Further in, so I can feel the heat 

Her tongue tastes of ambrosia

I can feel the warmth inside her,

She is tender and pure

And I want more

She burns me as she draws me closer, and this fever is the best kind

For she is woven of flames and desire,

Of seduction and fire,

And I know I shouldn’t, my whole body ablaze

But she’s too close to deny, and her eyes are a maze

So I guide her through my pleasure,

through my pleasure and my pain

All the while reminding her of the peril in this game

And now I lie satisfied, a pile of ash

For though water is my sustenance,

Fire is my weakness.

 

 

 

 

Transition//

Marlboro reds and spearmint,

some sort of cologne?

Had his arm around me,

why’d I feel so alone?

I think it’s you, I’m thinking about you

And you are the context,

the fabric of all that I do,

of what I think,

of who I am,

the very core of me.

And I keep breaking the rules,

over and over,

in the absence of you,

for you,

you.

And do you want me now?

You seem to want me now.

Now that I’m close enough,

to touch

Will you touch me now?

want to touch me now?

but I don’t know if I’m the same,

I think I’m quite different now.

I don’t recall,

where and why I began.

And now that you’re finally ready,

I don’t know if I am.

 

 

-/-

Release 

Music, 

Strange, yes.

No one is as important

I’m a bad person 

In a glass box 

No one understands

All surface eyes 

Hurt ma again 

I always do 

Hurt anyone that’s real 

Hurt anyone that tries to help 

Maybe I don’t want it

Maybe I wanna sink 

Lower 

And lower 

Destined for this I think 

Sadness fits like a glove 

Fearful 

Of what I’m missing 

Because it’s always something 

This or that 

Religion or pleasure 

Familiarity or the pursuit of new 

Of mystery 

Of goodness or greatness 

Of pleasing or being pleased 

Searching for the balance 

Is killing me 

I dont know where it is 

Equilibrium 

If it exists

No one understands 

No air in this box 

Gotta smash it open myself 

Myself 

Gotta end up with shards of glass

 in my skin, 

My soul,

But I’ll be free 

Nemo’s Nic-Nac Emporium: Ch 1. Purple

 

Screen shot 2017-05-18 at 4.30.36 AM

{Chapter 1: Purple}

“Why purple?” I asked.

Because it is the shade of royalty.”

“How do you mean?”

Are you familiar with the tropical mollusk ‘murex’? It is a predatory sea snail. The mucus glands of murices can be used to create a purple dye—‘Tyrian purple’. That’s where it first came from.”

My befuddlement at this explanation must have translated to my face, because Mr. Nemo stopped tinkering with the tiny clock in his hand when he looked up at me. He smirked (as subtly as he could manage to) and continued:

“It was extraordinarily rare and difficult to produce. Tens of thousands of murices, in addition to a considerable amount of labor, were required to create this dye. It was, therefore, notably valued in its rarity. Only esteemed members of nobility could afford such a luxury. So you see, purple is the shade of royalty.”

“And that’s why it’s your favorite color, is it? Isn’t that sort of twisted, being drawn to something because of its exclusivity? Don’t you think color is the sort of universal pleasure that everyone, regardless of class or ranking, should have access to?”

The clockmaker chuckled and resumed his work. I felt my cheeks growing red, his laugh, whether or not it was meant to be, seemed patronizing to me. After a few more minutes of fiddling with his clock, he seemed to finish up with whatever it was he was doing with it. He set it aside and looked up at me once more.

Do you think me a callous man, Arthur?” he asked, quite genuinely it seemed.

“I think it’s awfully cruel and regressive to reinforce or romanticize any sort of hierarchical system in the modern day, whether or not that reinforcement take as simple a form as the preference of a color.” I felt strongly about this, and attempted to convey my words with a degree of intensity that would not be lost on Mr. Nemo. He considered my words as he took off his eyeglasses and rubbed the lenses clean with his shirt.

Perhaps. And yet, is it not equally cruel to deny a man the power of indulging in extravagance? Is it not also regressive to discount the possibility of growth? He will never aspire for greatness, who has nothing to aspire to, my boy.”

“I don’t know if I value indulgence and extravagance the way you seem to. ‘Greatness’, as you describe it, seems to be an elaborate mask of a term used to disguise vanity. In a similar vein, ‘aspiration’ can be equated with a fruitless endeavor to prove one’s superiority to others. It is not so much callousness I identify you with, Mr. Nemo, but an alarming inclination to tend towards conceit.”

“Aha! But, Arthur, my dear boy, do you derive no pleasure in differentiating yourself from me? Do you find no sense of delight, not the slightest, in distinguishing yourself as the antithesis of a sybarite such as myself? Are you not, in the satisfaction you achieve in drawing the distinction between your morals and my own, putting yourself in a position, be it one relating to a spectrum of ethical righteousness, of superiority?”

Preposterous! No. Of course I was not putting myself in a position of superiority. Yes, I was glad that I didn’t share Mr. Nemo’s demented outlook on luxury, that I didn’t agree that some are more deserving of it than others. But does that mean I am no better than he is? How could that be? Does my overwhelming discomfort at being likened to someone like Mr. Nemo support his assertion? Am I indeed, in my evident need to see myself as someone entirely separate from him, just like Mr. Nemo? Are we all?

While I sat in silence and considered his peculiar convictions, Mr. Nemo found another clock to tend to; this one was rather large with a brass mantel.

“Mine’s yellow.” I said after a while. It was all that I could manage to say, because, at the moment, it was the only thing I was absolutely sure of. It was the only contribution I could make to the furthering of this conversation that had not been tainted by the seed of doubt that Mr. Nemo had so unperturbedly planted in my mind. He put down the crown wheel in his hand and looked up. “My favorite color,” I added, “it’s yellow.”

He smiled in a way that I can only describe as quaint, and softly asked, “Why yellow?

 

 

 

Fragmented Fondness

 

Inconclusive

Fireworks

Blackness happens in explosions

In your eyes, where the magic is born from butterflies

Never healing the pain that comes hand in hand with sentience

 

We are amidst everything

Nothing

All the same

Bumblebees buzzing, carrying messages to the faint-hearted;

Telling them to stay strong during this time of uncertainty.

 

We are not destined for liberation, not in this lifetime

I don’t know how to fall out of love anymore

Not today, I can’t forget you today

 

Your many faces are blurring into each other

But, the same every time

Kaleidoscopic visions roll their eyes at me, chuckling

I never really knew you

Not really

 

Fading, messed everything up because I could

Never said hi to you either

You wouldn’t have liked me very much anyway, I think

It’s all kind of useless I guess

Sadness is necessary, he told me

“Gives life purpose, don’t you think?”

I don’t know

I don’t like the way it feels though

 

Conversations rising up into the air like cigarette smoke

Dip into the ashtray and leave my sighs to cool down there

I’ll want you whether or not it’s good for me

First impressions are hilarious aren’t they?

Sword masters weren’t appealing upon first glance

You were an acquired taste, love

 

Get close enough

Let me scrunch my fingers into your hair

Smile with your soul, boy

With that radiance

That unapologetic candor

All black everything,

No ivory to dilute the darkness was ever found

Except for the soul,

The soul was grey.