I covered my head with rosemary—breathed them so far in, I planted a seed and the seed did grow, and feast, in me. I held myself like trees and tried to grow fingers, and feelings, but the sky wouldn’t keep me safe—stone shoulders and calling names who would not hear, knees soul-stained and dripping with the phantom touch of you.
Be the lightning in me, and forgive the fire, for I thought I’d roast my ribs to black—a soul-eater, and a thief to such small sympathies… but it’s okay, love, it’s okay: be you here or there, your home is now inside me, and I will breathe you safely.
I misspelled our love, and that's where we went... by Nullibicity, literature
Literature
I misspelled our love, and that's where we went...
I always thought I was a sparrow, nesting in tomorrows like the moon would drop from her orbit and gift me firmer ribs. I thought men and love would fall from dimples and roses, but I found out they drop much like you: unceremoniously and jumbled. They break wings… and god, the sound… but I guess they sing as they work, and that’s got to be well-meant.
So I fondled November like it fondled me, caught it early in the middle of snow angels and hayrides so it could feel the unexpected earthquake of ‘molested’. The world strung me from those letters, giving the past not only a face, but a name, as it bent grav
The world looks so different in a coffee cup. Things are not beginnings and ends—but a mirror and an eye. I prefer this fisheye world; things never come to, or want to come to, and end. But a beginning… they must have a beginning.
I rise before the sun to see the world ignite in river beds and eyes, all staring ‘till they close, and I set before the end, for who wants to wonder? Things shouldn’t have to end… they should just keep beginning and beginning. And beginning. Just as Winter eats the West Coast and bares the hollow in its womb, come April I am still sorrow. And They seem to flower beneath showers, but
If I push you away, do not leave, for I am probably in the chasm of a pain so wide, it swallows me in days. It’ll spit me out eventually, and dear I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I hope you’d be there to tie me down. I still do not know how to love without being broken and splintered in so many places, that I’d hope you’d be forgiving, despite the stakes I aim at us.
If I throw those broken ‘me’s at you, please lock them back inside of me… and know it was not you whom I was remembering. Know it was not the present I was lost in, but the past, and give me time to reinstall my gravity. I trust and
If you're ever at the bottom of the sea... by Nullibicity, literature
Literature
If you're ever at the bottom of the sea...
You cut me like a landscape, the kind with cresting hills, which rise into tsunamis.
You disturbed me in a bump; something, about a boy, who sings his heart in damper peddles. But it was I who sustained this love, one melody, of life and pain rolled into mornings of stage lights and an incessant itch to crawl into the dark. I never knew I could find another person so shackled by the past. (I’m relieved and strangled.)
I miss you in those Everest waves, wishing your eyes would ghost over me just once in a ripple of remembrance. I wish I could bend these hills down to be like her plains, so you could walk in me, and hum, and touch the l
Your love smells like snow
in the deep of August, sucking
me like mosquitoes and you.
damn, you always had a talented
tongue, knowing just what to say
to roll me between your teeth and
keep me there; and I was hoping—
no, trusting— I’d not be crushed.
I should have known when
you raised your bones against me,
when you clattered your molars
together but never bothered hiding
the truth below your belt.
And a part of me says
I was in love with you.
My tiny hands pressed to the frosted planes, breath stirring ghosts upon the glass. It’s only then that I remember I need–no, have–to see you. One look at my dad, and I know I shouldn’t say it, but I think it. Are you even coming back?
I trace glitter stars into the skyline, smearing the sleep and goodbyes all over as I wonder where you’re going now, though you told me not five minutes ago. I’ve forgotten, because maybe if I don’t know where you’re going, then it’ll be easier. Maybe you don't want to be around me. Maybe I can pretend you don’t exist, and therefore never feel the ach
You took me for a test drive and didn’t even have the decency to return me to the parking lot. I’m so messed up now, that I don’t even think he could give me away.
It hurts: remembering, living, with your fingerprints just below my heart, with your brand carved into my soul like rivers that sweep me well away. And sometimes, I don’t come back for hours, sitting in rock beds wondering how long I can hold my breath… wondering how long I can forget myself before I don’t know who I am anymore. Before I don’t know who you are. Because it’s not worth the rain and the chants that no one is truly genu
(You speak of the sea in colors and ash,
but I never felt condemned)
deserts crack your lips,
spilling sand past snake-bite hands
while you preach of how god brings rain.
I have to wonder when the last time
was that you had a solid drink of air.
Or perhaps you are too full:
hot air balloons to journey up to ceilings
where you spill horizon eyes to be.