hallow’s eve &parting grief

drunken clarity,

I know what I feel

whole room is spinning, 

I know what is real 

friendship and self-respect 

boundaries in limitlessness

you are crossing the barbed wire 

into the restricted, fiery depths of my desire 

and I cannot let you any further,

I cannot allow you to really know me, ever  
because I am not a second resort 

I am not what you can do when you’re bored 

I am far too much person for that 

I am far too well-versed in neglect 
so leave me as you came, smooth 

you were fascinating, intriguing 

a lovely thought in conjecture

you were everything, my darling,

all but true 

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peachbones🍑✨

cheekbones like peaches,

smile so keen

soul so beautiful,

so unmistakably clean.

       tongue like candy,

       body so strong

       hands so kind,

       an earthly charm.

A man with morals,

ethics and candor

with cheekbones like peaches,

a mind as colorful as reefs of coral. 

       He’s got cheekbones like peaches,

       I just wanna take a bite,

       to eat him up if he’ll let me 

       (and I think he just might).  

False Casanova

Backpedal,

For a moment, I forgot who I am

I forgot what I am worth

I forgot that I can stand

That I can run, that I bleed

That you are nothing to me

That I gave you an inch, and you took miles from me

 

And my heart is no plaything,

With which you can continue to toy

And you think you’re so slick in this game,

you think you’re so coy

 

But I am the Queen Bitch

I will forget you, quick fix

Like sand, you will dissolve

And I won’t even blink

 

Oh, you think I need you?

Think I can’t make it by?

Think I need you to hold me?

Wipe my tears, tell me lies?

 

Well fuck you and your delusions,

I will prosper on this throne

my body doesn’t mind the cold,

my tears dry on their own.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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.

Tremor

Hand tremor,

I shake.

You did this,

how dare you bend what you knew would break?

Haunt me,

and I simply cannot rest anymore.

Broken,

this can’t be what minds are made for;

to scream and wonder and yell and knock,

to pinch and prod and snicker and rot.

And although I know

that sentience is a pendulum

that rocks and sways,

it seems there is a constant,

one thing that doesn’t go away.

For though my mind

will refuse to dwell,

will repress any memory (lest it begin to swell),

there is a constant,

a pesky remain,

it is my hand

— which continues to shake.

 

 

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?