надеюсь

mother,
sweet turbulence,
i see distortion, static
on what used to be.
what Red Square where drinks and bottles of empty futures
could have been.
uncovered ruins, to flickers of art flourishing on despondence.

and ice winter days where the heart beats
only to survive.
what life?
they write on walls : graffiti crumbles
for the oligarch.
attached by his side the blood of a child's
awakening.

why i knew what i knew, but saw what few saw.
how did i think all to myself in that tundra of lies.

faces in yearning, painted vastness
in the corner of the iris -
and you are supposed to stand for something
greater than. fetching years of sadness, love inflamed with
raw.

mother,
i am left to shatter for affection. your stories
gather cold on the outer of my skin. so i draw the expression
of the cities charm. something history left out midst all
the desecrated bodies.

this and that, and what i am told to deem the
truth about myself.
where do i come to finally accept

the home i breathe.

How wicked wild to find something that reads familiar.

"Suicide is just a moment. This is how she described it to me. For just a moment, it doesn’t matter that you’ve got people who love you and the sun is shining and there’s a movie coming out this weekend that you’ve been dying to see. It hits you all of a sudden that nothing is ever going to be okay, ever, and you kind of dare yourself. You pick up a knife and press it gently to your skin, you look out a nineteenth-story window and you think, I could just do it. I could just do it. And most of the time, you look at the height and you get scared, or you think about the poor people on the sidewalk below - what if there are kids coming home from school and they have to spend the rest of their lives trying to forget this terrible thing you’re going to make them see? And the moment’s over. You think about how sad it would’ve been if you never got to see that movie, and you look at your dog and wonder who would’ve taken care of her if you had gone. And you go back to normal. But you keep it there in your mind. Even if you never take yourself up on it, it gives you a kind of comfort to know that the day is yours to choose. You tuck it away in your brain like sour candy tucked in your cheek, and the puckering memory it leaves behind, the rough pleasure of running your tongue over its strange terrain, is exactly the same. The day was hers to choose, and perhaps in that treetop moment when she looked down and saw the yard, the world, her life, spread out below her, perhaps she chose to plunge toward it headlong. Perhaps she saw before her a lifetime of walking on the ruined earth and chose instead a single moment in the air."

Carolyn Parkhurst, The Dogs of Babel

Conversations with my therapist.

Are these plants real?

Wow this is a really comfy chair. I'm trying to decorate my studio, where did you buy this?

Your eyes are really pretty.

Oh I'm fine, it's okay.

No, I haven't thought about death today.

I did think about it last week.

No I'd rather not talk about it.

I don't know.

I don't know.

I don't know, maybe.

I don't remember.

I'd rather not.

Same time next week?

+++++++++

She needs an ego stroke. Every once in a a while. A touch of words to the insides of her mind, to light a candle that will burn for a few minutes - to make a day worthy, to make her existence beautiful -

Because nothing else seems to work. She needs attention. Give her something. Warm people, almanacs, the bravest bulbs to catch her eyes and engage in dialogues no one will remember the next day.

She needs to be around warm people because often times she is not. Not the sweetest kind. One wrong word will send her spiraling down even further so tread carefully, and use inspiring adjectives.

One wrong word and she'll end up in the sewers, where it's fitting for her current mentality, yet everything her outward appearance is not.

She will not deal with negatives, the bitter kings and queens because she is one.  A contrast of palettes is crucial.

speaking of charismatic roles. I am always walking a fine line, a danger line when flirtation occurs. Can't yet seem to put a lock on my mouth. The brakes don't work. I spin vowels around my tongue and greet unsuspecting men, welcome them into my lair.

'Oh she's so amazing, a free spirit. I bet she wants to suck my dick.'
And I tell them exactly what they want to hear. Not only for their entertainment, but I guess for my own. I figure we can write a wonderful script, and act things out, and when things get awkward we can yell cut. They mistake my playfulness for something real. A potential relationship of sorts. I want to be left alone, I want space, I want my ego stroked by the pounds, and I want my heart full with compliments. I want it all. On my terms. How sick.

Speaking of sick: this whole city. The snow. The people. Panic attacks. Fear mongering. Local news channels. Your peculiar face. Happy Friday.

I’m going to wake up one morning & my mind will be intact, and beautiful. The pillows will no longer smash my dreams to little pieces. My heart won’t roll its eyes at whoever dares to come close. 

I feel nervous, I feel out of it, too exposed, too uncomfortable. Everything is amazing when we’re together - in an imperfect, silly way. But that is a crutch that’s too dangerous to give into. I’m just not happy. And in my unhappy state - I will destroy him. Unintentionally.

Mad, mad little one.

What love I gave you formed from simple hello’s,
And what magic binded me to see what really
Lies behind those liar eyes.
Whose blessings did I count before I turned back around?
When time blew through me straight like an arrow, whose lips did i think of
Minutes before my end?
What love crossed my mind?

Black velvet succumbs you.
The hands that would protect
From deceit, those same hands cursing wildly,
Dangling your heart in the air.
My hands they are.
Rattling to bones your faith.

Thoughts of women present. Amour.
Envy strikes an avid psyche;
Sweet, the revenge I will take out on you.
Sweet are those lies you fed me full,
Down the drain with my gold.
Whose words will you speak of?
Just wait, You’ll watch me unfold.

Bodies on bodies like skeletons they pile.
Deadly roots drip from poisonous flora.
And when you bite, temptation will hold you.
And when you cry, I’ll run to your carcass
To mend and to protect.

What’s mine will always be mine.
Who else would kill just to receive you back?
Whose lips would kiss just to feel you quiver?
Not those prior, not those after.