SomewhereI found a girl under my floorboards today I named her November and asked her to stop sending icicles and remorse up through my mattress.Somewhere
I found a girl in my shower today I named her Tuesday and washed the smell of saltwater and burning bridges off of her parchment skin.
I found a girl in my neighbor’s backyard today I named her good intentions and took the hope from her eyes, because unsound individuals are not allowed to handle hazardous materials.
I found a girl in a stranger’s bed today I named her suicide and gave her a note that read ‘you are sixteen, you are
I am DevolvingIt is 2 a.m. and my hair smells like cigarettes.I am Devolving
There is something about the way these streetlights silhouette the form of a man sitting on the curb that reminds me vaguely of you.
I wonder: is he an alcoholic? a drug addict? Or is he a lover, with a dream and all the good intentions in the world?
I don’t bother to ask; I think the answer would scare me more than I care to admit.
Instead I keep walking, trying to remember my way home from your place. I wasn’t there, but sometimes I orientate myself that way, just to pretend I am a part of your life again. &nbs
You are Someone Else's WhoreYour eyes taught me a million different storiesYou are Someone Else's Whore
about revolution and the decay of humanity within our bones. The substances we inhaled brought about delusions of dinosaur demises
and rest in peace secrets.
The Atlantic was on fire and I was taking hits of caffeine to
stayawake stayalive. You took photos of my silhouette to complement the black holes and pretty broken things on your bedroom walls.
I am one step away from another bad decision
I am retina-deep in unrealized remorse
and I’ve already made up my mind.
The G
north station"why is it you always come home covered in blood?"north station
"because i never bring a change of clothes with me."
"is it your blood this time, or someone else's?"
"oh, it's rebecca's."
"why is rebecca bleeding?"
"i think she's stopped by now."
"glad to hear it, but why was she bleeding in the first place?"
"right. rebecca got hit by a train."
"gosh- is she alright?"
"yeah, of course."
"shit, good thing. man, what happened?"
"i told you, rebecca got hit by a train."
"no shit. i mean, how did she get
near-life experienceit floods when streets are remembering. they've tried to rip open, decay, erode. they know all they have left is to hide. they steal homes, albums, food, street signs sighing this is what we need. this is what they need.near-life experience
sometimes, no one understands. pavements are paved with prayers, praying not to be prey. this is how they mend cracks, tearing permanent ink from ageless wrinkles, pulling the ocean away from the sea. they record near-death experiences with every broken seam of a life vest, whispering near-life strokes through artists' alleys. this is what they remember, and this is not even bangladesh.
This.This world is filled with questions.This.
We ask each other, when we first meet: What do you do for a living? Who’s your favorite author? What’s your favorite color?
And we’re left still, with the emptiness of “I don’t know you”.
Because.
We forget to ask the questions that really mean something, and we forget how to speak in intimate “I know you” ways of sisters and brothers and friends forever. We forget to ask about why you turned your eyes away, or what do you dream of? Not, where do you want to go in life? But what do you dream.
And.
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www.kathrynjeanes.com
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we will fold and freeze together far away from here.--
we will fold and freeze together far away from here.I absolutely adore your writting.
It really resonates with me.
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we will fold and freeze together far away from here.--
we will fold and freeze together far away from here.Previous Page12345...Next Page