summernightangel

sept. 30 October on the wing i can tell things are getting bad again because i start thinking in poetry all the sharp edges of the world stuck beneath my unguarded skin feeding me imagery and sensation intravenously i gag on the words as they spill onto the page, overwhelmed, drowning. on bad days i watch the trains pass and think about hitching a ride, southbound and down, out of this place. on worse days i think about standing on the tracks with whiskey on my lips, waiting on a 2000 ton kiss.

when I say fuck it I don’t mean fuck the dream I mean fuck the steady stream of reminders, signs that you are not good enough, I mean fuck the rock and the hard place, the corner we are backed into, and only the ones who slip up and get shoved back against the walls even realize it, and by then we only have half a hope of making it. fuck giving until you give out and getting nothing in return, the stories lied, your best is not enough. I mean fuck the facades, the show we all put on, like this is sane and normal, like we don’t all cry at one in the morning, or three, or five, like two hours of sleep is fine because everyone else

summer, fall- winter, and spring on the horizon, your skin too frozen to move, still locked into the old aching ways, a suicide in the mirror with grasping hands and a ring around his neck. there is no way out but through, and you know you won’t survive the trip. a bottle, a blade, a need for control that's beyond physical needs like hunger or sleep, a screaming in your ears because your grip keeps slipping, because you are waging a war in the coffeeshop, in the grocery store. it is brutally unfair and you are old before your prime, burned out all the way through from the stars you swallowed. nuclear fusion echoes in your shadowed eyes

Question of the day; What am I still doing here- think I was meant to be dead, to have gone down too soon in a blaze of glory years before, never to grow this old and tired at twenty I have taken the medication, I have tried to talk Is it my fault that I cannot communicate what I am, where I am, what is inside me? I want to tie my loose ends in bows on the Christmas presents I am sending off, Put my best dress on, do my hair and lashes up like I’m here for all the attention in the room, dance them all dizzy and kiss them goodbye Spent my whole life readying for this performance, let me enchant you one more time with that smile Before

On days when I feel really crazy, I wish that someone would kiss me awake in another world, that I’d find myself shaken but sane somewhere I fit in my skin and bones and their arms. I wish this was the nightmare, that I’d wake up into a fantastical world where I could fight for something nobler, be someone’s hero, be anything better than the hollow creature I become when the wind gets cold. it doesn't feel like i was meant to be living this life i've been holding out forever and hardly get any recognition i guess even if i did what would it mean, i'm too good at tuning everything except for the voice in my head out isn't i

Sea Songs It wasn't until Adele was nearly eight years old that she began to realize not everyone's mother was like hers. She had grown up knowing that Elaine sang quietly, in a language that wasn't quite words but with a melody that couldn't be forgotten. Her mother was an earnest but completely inept cook. She had skin as pale as milk, eyes and hair so black they barely reflected light. She had a silver coin on a leather cord around her neck, and when Adele asked about it, she only replied, "A debt that is owed." Unlike the other women, Elaine walked everywhere- barefoot. Adele understood that her mother was foreign. In their tiny seasid

The lightning flashes And I know you're out there somewhere, Streaking across sky. You and I were both wild things domesticated- Now you're freer, and Faster than we could ever have imagined when we raced in the snow. Thunder rolls across the prairie skies, but I know you're not afraid now. Riding the wind, your heartbeats soar through the trees while I think I can feel Your touch in the rain, beautiful; your smiling eyes- I know you're still here.

I loved Nikola Tesla, and when my hair began to curl and my tongue crackled, he told me, hold on tighter, baby, it's going to get so much brighter than this. Marconi whispered sweet nothings over the transmitter, and as the frequency hummed right through my bones, he said, sing it out, sweetheart, or be shaken apart at the joints. Then there was Da Vinci, who wanted to paint myths into my skin, and while he diagrammed my organ structure, he'd whisper, honey, your bones are going down in history. When Pierre Curie trailed glowing kisses down my neck, I felt my veins decay, radiating pulses of electrostatic magnetism, and as my heart m

This is what it's like To sit on the floor at midnight, mouth wide open and unable to inhale. To shake as the darkness runs up you, through you, clenches your muscles and seeps into your lungs. This is what it's like To be alone and captive in your own life, sick and sick and sick when the drugs aren't enough. When you take the medicine and smile at the people and eat the food and go to the gym, but sometimes you still fall out of reality. This is what it's like When you thought you won, but you didn't, when life's not like they promised, When the tears still come and the lights won't come on and you're still not strong enough to ca