the space above my ears.

Your Favorite Color of Nosebleeds

It's 7 pm, but the bitterness in the wind bears witness to the calamity at the bottom of the hill.

From a distance, the battle looks something like a picnic or a birthday party.

But you and I are there, so therefore it is not so.

Trivial things become dangerous when we get involved.

It all fades beneath the arguments over who can spin the teacup fast enough.

We don't consider who is catapulted out by the infinitely-increasing momentum, we'll clean up when it's over and one of us has been crowned.

Our extravagant envies are so vast and bright that Nero cries into his fiddle.

You may be hypothermic for the third time this week, but I'm still reeling from the concussions via crochet mallets.

That too becomes a war.

However, the brightest burning means the fastest falling, so dwindling are our victories.

Dwindling is the daylight.

Dwindling are our years.

It's like being ambidextrous in the head, but paralyzed from the neck down.

I come home one evening and her ballet slippers are on the windowsill, ribbons fluttering in the breeze.

I can hear the sirens and sobbing below, so I do not need to stick my head out into the sounds of the city to know she will not be back for dinner.

With care, I box up the slippers and leave them on the doorstep of the orphanage.

My attention may have been selective that night, but you can stop the silent conversations; I saw the eyes in the bushes.

Your history goes something like the Tell-Tale Heart, except you are the heart and you can't forget the smell of delusion underneath those floorboards.
It haunts you forever and here you are.

I've only heard things through the grapevine, but you will not be telling me the real past any time soon, so that's all I have.

I don't tell you things like this, but I know we don't laugh as much in this day and age, and it feels like I'm the only one who doesn't know why.

I'd sell my soul to touch you without my fists; I'd never say that either.

I'm thinking it, though.

It's a reflex to pretend to know somebody's ache.

We're scared of the unknown so we pretend we know it all because it's easier than trying to hold your breath while a nurse funnels the Elixir of Youth down your throat.

I always hear your voice when I'm high and I can never tell if it is coming from the basement cellar or from inside me.

We never got to be kids so fuck it, I get a free pass to do something stupid.

Looking through the small number of photos I forgot to delete in my blind rage, I'll start fuming at the fact that even now I can't get rid of them.

You're stuck in my fucking teeth.

Shouting in my ears.

My head's a bottle and you're a ship so I must break myself to purge you but Im so tired of sweeping the glass of the floor.

From the bottle.

Or from the teacups.

It makes little difference.

I end up swallowing it all anyway.

a/n sorry if this is formatted kind of strange, I'm out of town currently so I uploaded this on my phone