THE POET AS AN OPEN WOUND

i. bloodlust:

i want to hunt boys like men hunt me when my legs and teeth are bared, i’m tired of being an empty body because it’s always the hollow ghosts who end up with their lungs coughed up on the ground, blood-smeared / blood-spattered, i don’t know how to tell people that some nights i dream of a tongue down my throat but most nights i dream of a KNIFE there instead.

ii. faulty wires:

let’s say that text messages are the new love letters so dead silence for two days actually means, “i wanna kiss you so bad i don’t even know how to talk to you anymore.” it goes like this: touch/electricity/delete (and pretend we never actually existed at the same time in the same space; this way the laws of physics hurts a little less). tell me, are you a dying star? DO YOU KNOW HOW TO BLEED?

iii. hearts and paper cuts:

black skies and cigarette smoke tell me to stop writing the world as a nightmare but that’s hard to do when i’ve only known lovers as shadows on my bedroom walls at midnight; i ache/i hunger/i fall for the moon again and pretend that she’s the sun in my mouth. HYPOTHESIS: if i set fire to the world tonight we could burn down to the ground or we could go up in smoke.

iv. god’s liquor-dipped tongue:

heaven is a sweet-talker, an angel taught me how to kiss and tell and fall in and out of love in the time it takes sobriety to kick in and now i can’t think of a better way to say that the universe belongs in hell the same way Lucifer did. i want to CRASH and BURN like Icarus but i’ll be honest and say that i’m sick and tired of hearing about boys who never did learn how to fly.

v. neon churches in our bodies:

there’s no difference between the hunter and the hunted, we’re all searching for the same bloody demons in circles again and again and again. i’m always starving for something more (I’M ALWAYS STARVING FOR YOU). can i offer you these ribs, these lungs? i can make myself into something holy. i can be good for you, i swear.