You feel things stirring in your body something. No, you feel your body stirring, shifting atoms deep inside you like they’re trying to tell you something. You listen but only feel an ache for things you have no words for. You shift and roll and change your outside to try and fit with this new inside of yours.
It doesn’t work. You can feel every atom in you shaking and calling out like they’re trying to prove they are not just a part of something bigger, like they are not just a part of you.
They aren’t, you know. Each atom is a world unto itself—is a high speed collision waiting to happen. You cannot begin to understand the potential for destruction you have inside you; cannot begin to feel the potential for greatness.
They sing still; calling out to each corner of the universe where they once came from. Shake off the dirt you wearily trudge inside and instead feel the stardust you once were.
Ache now, and try to make your outside match your insides. Ache now, and try to picture space in the blackness of your mind and know you are not even close.
Ache now, ache then, ache soon. They are the same and only the atoms inside you know that. Try to picture time in the black of space and feel it crumble between your fingertips. Your hands are just stars anyway. Your hands are just history and love. Your hands are still just singing for something you can’t hold.
when it’s all said and done
one day i beat a fly to death with a hand towel
and after, could only stand there thinking
“i beat a fly to death with a hand towel”
there is nothing beautiful or majestic about us
because truth be told, i heard buzzing and then,
and then well, i didn’t
we can’t sink to the ground over every death
or else we would never get up but
i didn’t recognise myself in the way i wielded
that terrycloth weapon and that’s what sent me
sprawling, tiles scraping my knees.
the fly still lays at the bottom of the bathtub
because i am too afraid to touch the
product of my destruction
this isn’t volcano day
this isn’t the fall of rome
this is me
beating something to death.
i never wanted the body
people told me
they hated me for.
(never liked the person
people told me
to live for.)
I wish I could show you my life so far
in tea and coffee drinks.
How those months were endless dark coffee,
drunk too fast and too strong;
were mint and camomile tea when I was home
to make it.
I wish you would see all those coffees I let go cold
and reassure me I really existed,
I wish you could see the way I drank tea the way my mother made it
because I wouldn’t accept any other comfort.
I wish you would see me now,
wish you could see how I keep reusing the same cup.
One black coffee, one darjeeling with sugar.
Tell me what it means in the end and then
show me what our cups will look like
in our future.
abyss: a self study
You are a building in love with the people who walk through you. You were crazy, but you’re not now and you miss the way people look as they leave you. People leave you now—you’re not somehow adept at relationships—it’s just there aren’t many people left who will walk into a building so close to falling. You understand that it’s not their fault, you forgive them, you shut your doors.
This is how it ends, or how it starts, depending where you joined us. This is how it ends—a doctor picks up your file and says “we were wrong”. This is how it ends, happily of course. They take your file and somehow all you have accomplished is in those pieces of paper; they read your prognosis: major depression, social anxiety, panic attacks, OCD.
“we were wrong”
You were crazy but now you’re not.
It’s in simple terms, I don’t see how you are misunderstanding.
the light was different that day, I swear.
the light was gold and bright
and so were you.
you kissed my cheek when you said goodbye
and didn’t even realise
that I couldn’t catch my breath.
(you held my hand and it felt
almost as soft as your lips.)
I hate people
but I love them
and that discrepancy
is tearing oceans
inside of me.
these stable things are falling | cosima/delphine (2000 words)
Red starts to flush through your home like the walls themselves are blushing. Blood starts to pool like flowers and it’s so stark against white (white tissues, white teeth, white skin, and red). You adapt, learn that she’s better in the mornings when the sun comes through the window like gold and that she’s better with dark sheets on the bed, blood staining too dark and deep with anything lighter. You watch her fall asleep amongst your shadow bed and in the morning, gold overtaking you both, she presses her body into your body. Each part of you both is made up of something insubstantial, something that will break apart if you speak too loudly and so when you come, her mouth hard against your neck and fingers so clever inside you, it’s with a whimper, not loud enough to upset even the sunshine that crests and breaks across you both.
I ask people I love to tell me about the people they love.
It is beautiful, the way they light up and can talk forever
about someone that isn’t me. It’s beautiful and it feels
like drowning, feels like jumping off a building with my
heart still left on the ledge.
This is how we hurt ourselves: we take a blade, we take
a fist, we take a shot and ask ‘but do you think they are
the one?’ and smile through our shredded skin when they