When the bed gets too hot
I run in the woods
In hopes that when I return
My mind will be tired enough
And my soul returned to its raw state
So that dreams can reignite the fire
“Trust me, I have thick skin. But even thick skin can break, and mine has been uneven for a while now.”
There's something humble in being selfish. As if you have been chiseled down to the bare and realize that all you ever had is your flesh and the mind that controls it.
On the prospect of the soulmate
“For I am a fire in the middle of the sea and I need ice in order to make a home.”
i still don't notice the eyes.
for how could i look into your soul
if i have just met you?
We were no ember
The walking enigma,
The riddle of our youth.
For how can a fire,
in the blizzard,
possibly be anything but the truth.
the stars were the water on the pavement
when you entered my dreams
the theif drank them all
to gain the hearts of our heroes past
and now pisses on us all from the heavens
while we continue to sit on the cold ground
The man in the chair
The last time I felt the rain, I was huddled under the abandoned garage in a beach chair, one with two pockets on the side for your beers. You laughed as I ran back and forth into the puddles forming on the cracked concrete of the driveway, not caring that I was barefoot and that your belly was starting to peek through your shirt.
I used to hate that, people who wouldn't go anywhere without shoes. I remember burying my feet in the sand of the islands not too far from here, ones where we would go every summer. The rain felt even more real there. I played games of drip drip drop with the sky and my sisters until you would call me inside to watch the sun drip into the horizon from your view on the recliner. You said it was melting like my favorite popsicle. None of the other kids liked the orange popsicles.
I wasn't like the other ones, and I remember being mad that you treated them the same as me. I guess I should see the viture of that now, but I remember being alone at the age of nine while locked in the coat closet with a bloody lip and bruised knees and thinking: I'm melting away and you don't care.
The other ones laughed at me after that. I sat in my mushroom chair with a book in my lap, squinting at the whipping wind and branches from the storm while you got high off the generator's gas as you kept us alive. I decided to use candles anyway, maybe to spite you? You treated the girl from the mountains the same as you did the boy of the sea. Don't you realize that I looked at you differently than they did?
Now they're all gone, and with them you as well. I ride my bike past the rebuilt house, the ashes of which that served as the colosseum in which I fought the others for you. I threw out the beach chair along with the mosaic of the barefoot man when you left. I figured if one was to die the other had to go with it.
I don't know if I killed the boy that day. I had killed you, and now its hard for me to remember the last time I felt the rain. You shroud the summer days with a mist that can still make me perspirate in fear. A fear that every barefoot memory of you might be wrong, and that you were the one who killed the boy in the first place.
You Are Not a Stoic
You are not a stoic.
Indifference fits you like the medium sized t-shirt on the depressed teen: too snug in some areas and completely loose in the others.
I am the one person you can not fool.
Trust me, I have been indifferent. I went through life as a spector. Neither a morning nor a night person, although I was only awake for the night. It's when the world becomes silent and seems to give you the respect that only a fragment of god deserves.
Don't let the night fool you.
You feel it. So intensely it aches your bones and clouds your vision. Don't you notice when people ask you what color your eyes are? It's because they seem to be...smoky. As if the fire that burns you goes ignored and has has climbed from your heart to your head.
That fire is the enemy.
You must not kill this enemy. You must negotiate with it. Accept its existence, and make it accept yours. A duality exists within you, Reclaimant. A violence who's only wish is to bring peace to the world.
Clear your mind, Pastkiller. For you are not a stoic.
What if you met that person already?
The one with the smile that they warned you about. The girls always used to say it was like a drug. What a simple fucking comparison.
No, I always knew that a smile was more like a fruit.
Do you wonder why the storytellers tell us it was a fruit that Eve ate?
It's because its so sweet, far sweeter than a drug. Except you don't know that its bad for you. It never seems like you're rebelling when you eat the fruit. It just feels right.
Have you ever heard of a canker sore?
It's a small, shallow sore that somehow manages to hurt worse than a knife to the thigh. Some people get canker sores more than others. They are the ones who tend to eat citrus anymore. You can always feel the acid erode your fleshy gums when you bite into that tender orange, but it doesn't matter in the moment; because, in comparison to what the fruit gives you? Well, it's worth it - then the sweet sensation of the fruit leaves your tongue.
So, what if you met that person already?
You know him. Or her. They left your mouth thirsty. Not your throat, but your mouth.
You think about him or her all the time. What they managed to do to you was far worse than a shot in the arm. You're not addicted now, you're thirsty.
For the fruit contains juice, and we will all die much quicker without juice than we do without our pills.