i
the process of writing looks like this:
walking into a bar and not knowing what to order
i dont have the money to pay you for your work
writing looks like this:
i forget your name, even though i yell it in the early hours of the morning
you dont know i do
restlessness with you around feels like vomiting up words just to fill the pages
treating myself well is just something i cannot do, we know this
more often than not, i feel like i have to run away
i run away when i lie about your hair color or your height
i lie about the way your hands make me feel
i will regret this
eye sockets hollow
in my dreams you chase me
and i threaten you
because you like it, do you?
the dangerous unwillingness
i dont know how to make this raw without coughing up blood
your jaw is in excruciating pain, because you havent eaten in days
this is okay, you tell yourself
your heart works against every principle of bare, naked survival
you dont want to survive
this is okay too,
i say
decaying, i find you
this is not the river
this is neither basement, nor graveyard
pain is the next best feeling to love
complete and utter disbelief pierces you like lightning
once i am where you are right now
ii
seeing you looks like this:
running away, escaping
you like being useful, so you chase me
and i want to wake up
i want to feel invincible, even while dying
it was the poison,
says the letter in your mailbox
it was the golden spoon between my lips,
says the poison
you hit the window and it shatters
you are not a sparrow anymore
iii
anticipation is the air around you
i cant breathe
and i love how you leave me breathless
features soft and sharp
it seems like you fell in love with something otherworldly, divine
with something that is so much more of everything I could never be
iv
where were you
you ask
i ran away
i say
the wind is cold, but you would never admit that
you are freezing, not cold
there is a difference
the wind is cold, you say
are you okay, you say
i answer,
i lie
this time
because i havent been defeated yet
i never run out of things to love
this is what it feels like to touch you
v
i havent done anything stupid in about thirty-six hours
its about time you suffer,
i hear myself say
pain was a time i deserved
vi
my dreams look like this:
i kiss you and you disappear
my dreams should look like this:
i tell you that i want to kiss you
and you dont let me
i tell you to at least let me touch you and you give in
my dreams look like this:
you run away before i can say something,
and when i try to, even though youre gone,
i talk about your sister
anger, hate and misery
neither friend, nor enemy
i order a drink and the glass breaks
i pay for the drink and the glass, hell
i would even pay for the hardwood floor,
if you let me
you dont let me
i know this
i leave and sing at a different bar
i drape myself over the piano
to pay for your drink
the next morning comes and i ask you how you eat your eggs
broken
you say, still dreaming
and i laugh
later i slip on the wet tiles in the bathroom and my wrist turns blue
loving someone and not knowing why
it looks like this, a lot
vii
taking things as they are is not a mistake
i tell you just after midnight
you kiss me, and i think, like it
a lot
viii
the wind is cold, you say
are you okay, you ask
its early
its winter
its thursday
i dont think i am,
i answer
truthfully, this time
though im not quite sure
ix
locking eyes with my cat feels like this:
you know something surreal
you know something sacred
something i felt and something you cannot understand
the shrine in the back of my closet falls apart
i feel like that, too
sharpening your pencil while writing feels like giving up, feels like a final defeat
digging nails into your palm and drawing blood looks like an accident, but feels like a victory
remember that im invincible
i run once more
away,
i mean
this time you stay, because you know i return
except
you dont
in the time i am absent
you start a garden
in the time i am not home
you slay a dragon and marry a king
in the time i run away
i trust you to do the right thing
trusting you to do the right thing feels (just a bit) like this:
warm hands on cold faucets
x
the process of writing starts like this:
somethings dripping
we dont know if its blood
xi
sometimes, when im bored
sometimes when i have nothing better to do (i never do)
when i have excess time on my hands
i think about you
then
i make the mistake of thinking about you
of tales i never dare to say out loud
xii
this is art,
i tell myself
art looks like this:
piloting a plane and maneuvering around the stars
art looks like this:
falling without a parachute
xiii
i dream of you
and when i wake up,
youre still smoke in a net
waking up looks like this, now
