lilies at the shrine of a self-absorbed neurotic by scheherazades, literature
Literature
lilies at the shrine of a self-absorbed neurotic
Cut the girl in half
In the pink
She will wither perfectly.
On the run, translucent
I starve to screaming
In the vomit morning
girl made to die
On one lonely pilgrimage—
in the window, my body
filled with flies
Privately thinks she cuts quite a dramatic figure
Tragically determined & blurry
& Fucked by older men
Their souls buzzing in the cereal boxes
& women in the magazines—
On Narrative Satisfaction and Suicide
already in mourning for tomorrow
Please don’t go, I love you, etcetera.
In dreams I see my face
& it is very beautiful
and made up
In
no matter where i go by permanence-in-flux, literature
Literature
no matter where i go
lead me to a place
where the only religion is
nihilism
lay me down in Asphodel
face down
to hell
(with my back to)
heaven
feed me ambrosia lies
'til i retch them up
fed up with
wretchedness
there, in a pool of
hallowed sustenance
(processed)
i'll ponder my
inadequence
picking petals
off weedlings
wondering if
i'm loved
by anyone
when everyone is
somewhere else
maybe i'll turn back
to see heaven
as it fades
away wholly
and Hades
burns forever below me
warming but
swarming with the dead
at least they have each other
i guess
it's not that i'm impossible by muscularteeth, literature
Literature
it's not that i'm impossible
it's that men fall for my skin without reading the directions which clearly state: do not pull here. they all manage to anyway and from that triangle of flesh i unravel. they only start to question me when we've reached the muscle, usually, because men are not as afraid of blood as they pretend to be.
whose hands are these? they ask not me but the ghosts rippling under the shining pulsing mass i cannot identify in the mirror or even looking at the back of my hands. the ghosts, however, do not speak; they only whistle condescendingly if these men get to my organs and witness the state of my lungs and liver.
i try to wear more clothing. i try
What you don’t know won’t hurt me,
we’re just better off that way.
If you knew too much,
then it would just get in the way.
I could tell you everything,
but I’d be misunderstood
so ignorance my not be bliss,
but it’s for my own good.
on writing an autobiography, or eulogy by successwithhonor, literature
Literature
on writing an autobiography, or eulogy
start first with the goodbyes
(there is never enough time once it is finished):
get piss drunk & let the words run down your legs like stale champagne)
say this is some expensive shit, as in i paid for it. with blood & saltwater & sleep (or lack thereof)
say you’ll do that when you’re dead, & well, yeah. here i am.
so enjoy it. drink up: tastes like my last supper
yeah, like goodbye
///
arrangements: no need for a headstone, hun, just a polaroid of my big fucking mouth
say here lies never could keep it shut
here lies don’t chew just swallow
here lies puke it back up in the morning
yeah, i’m si
I will not be taken so easily by seaboundstars, literature
Literature
I will not be taken so easily
she is standing
on the fringe of my thoughts,
telling me
"you don't know who you are
anymore."
i am at the ocean:
the shriek of the waves and the lull
of its serrated rocks;
sunlight tearing across my skin.
except, i am more sure
than i have ever been.
this is a precipice for me
and i am ready
to drown.
i.
death is a shadow
and i feel him,
some days more than
others.
ii.
we first met on a
sunny day in january.
he covered my tiny fist
inside his and squeezed
it like an apology, and
i began to cry.
i have seen his
silhouette every day
since.
iii.
he is always on the
flip side of light –
always sharper
where the sun shines
fierce.
(sometimes i can only
face the bright side
because i know he has
my back.)
iv.
i write him letters.
sometimes they are
stories. sometimes
they are odes. but
most of the time, they
are just
conversations, that
we have.
(“i was thinking
about you.”)
v.
death is