The Dreaming Place

I’m always writing about the pieces of me, the parts of me. Like I am a mess of a shattered mirror, strewn across a floor. I am a stained glass window, bright panes of glass brought together to create something whole and new. I am shards of a broken bone in a seven year old’s wrist. I am a jungle of puzzle pieces and won’t you help put me back together? If the earth is one giant organism, teeming with an innumerable amount of pieces that combine to make it a whole, then the parts of me only make a part of a whole different creature and if the earth is just a piece of something bigger, how can we ever expect to know all the pieces of ourselves if we are not even whole?

nothing has ever frightened me more than the way my throat closed up when i first heard your voice. the way your voice melted over my skin, like the smoothest wax dripping from a candle.  everything that i am yearns to be near you, to close my eyes and know your face with just my fingertips. to breathe the smoke from your lungs. i wish i could make sense of how i feel about you. friend, brother, lover? if we are friends, you are the best friend i’ve ever known. you’re the only person to ever see inside of me and know the dark things lurking there. if we are siblings, we grew together, not from the same mother, but from the same energy. our skin will connect in places that i didn’t know where only half formed because you are a part of me. if we are lovers, the parts of us that would touch are the lonely things inside of us. i know that i will never touch your face, taste your breath, hear your voice close enough to feel. 

do you ever get so fucked up inside that you feel like screaming? like if you don’t make bloody half moon indents on your thighs with your fingernails you won’t be able to breathe? like maybe if you don’t eat today you won’t feel so fat. like if you bite the soft underside of your wrist you won’t completely fall apart today.  like if you make a special blog so he’ll finally talk to you but he doesn’t so instead you just message him over and over and over again hoping he’ll talk to you but he never does. like if you write out all your feelings to a stranger that doesn’t give a fuck about you then you’ll feel whole for one moment of one day. did you ever get so fucked up that you couldn’t do the one thing you actually love which is writing but nothing ever comes out of your mouth anymore because the words have swollen in all the parts of you and sometimes you pretend that is why you’re obese not because you’re lazy and stupid but because the words and the tears and the feelings stopped coming they are all stopped up inside of you like parts of a broken watch and you are just hanging there wishing someone would come along and put you back together but none of the pieces would fit even if they tried because you are just so fucked up inside

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eyes half closed i count the lashes framing my eyes, tipped with prisms of reflected light from the rose petal lamp nesting in my bookcase.

the look of surprise on your face was almost as sweet as the taste of your lips tinged pink by the uv rays beating down hot on our faces. as if they were freshly baked for the two of us. the sun wraps us in a cocoon of warmth so comforting that i feel as if i can share the worst of me. this is why i’m ready to tell you the things that lurk underneath the fabric of my clothes, and the whisper of my skin, currently aching to be flush against yours.  when the look of surprise turns to pity and i bring my lips closer to yours. i wonder if you can feel the heat emanating from between my thighs. i wonder if you will be able to taste the desperation and longing and fear and need in the pocket in the back of my throat. i wonder if you will continue to kiss me in spite of these things.

she wears the aurora borealis like a necklace perched above her carotid

ribs cracking outward from the mass of the things you have attempted to place under the cage of my bones

there are things i would keep from you, if i could. the stars (too bright, too dull, too far from reach, too vast in numbers) will always disappoint you. i will always disappoint you
i will be too close for comfort, trying to control you, mold you into something perfect. i will be distant, absent. i will be bright and new like the sun and you will feel like everything (including you) revolves around me. i will be as cold and as silent as the moon. i will be constant. i will be as fleeting as a comet, a meteor, a dying star. i will consume you, a black hole. i will disappoint you. i will hide from you all the things that could ever possibly hurt you. beautiful sad things, girls like waifs with soft violet eyes, and boys with hearts on their sleeves, the blood soaking them with the love that will tempt you but i will keep you safe and i will protect you from them and maybe even me but somehow i cannot protect you from yourself