e-verybodylies

i remember when your tears would cascade on my drought-stricken heart . but don't worry, darling, they vanished before i could quench my thirst .

 oh, but now i know that i was never in love with you, just your words . i’d read your poetry like it was some kind of nothing-but-spiritual prayer that was meant to save me but never did, and oh, i think i like it better with poison splattered across the page . i’m the writer who never wrote about you, so if you could please save me the heartache, i beg of you to make nothing more than a blank paper out of me . our non-existent history

pray for me, you treacherous God of death, pray for the massacre we caused, our wrath was never righteous, pray for its damnation . pray for our sins to never be forgiven by a God who doesn't even believe in himself . we are damned, my salvation, we are damned .

even the angels are suicidal - look, they're falling from the sky . mysterious entities - in my eyes that's another word for strange but that doesn't matter now . bloodshot eyes and darkened wings, oh the regrets, pity, no one gives a damn, they're only falling so they can break . i'm only falling so i can break but i have no right no fucking right to write about myself . a demon writing about angels, you said you liked irony, as far as i'm concerned you can damn well choke on it .

"are you the sea, or the sand ?" "none . i think i'm rather fog, because i'm confused and confusing and no one bothers to see through me . " "that's not quite true . " "then, i'm a barely functioning collection of mess - kind of like Frankenstein's monster but instead of body parts, it's different personalities that are sewn together . if that makes sense . " "you're very beautiful . that's what i know . " "thanks, i think . but no, i'm not . outer beauty is a relative thing - but the inside, if i could take it and turn it into clothing, then i'd have the scariest halloween costume ." "  you're beautiful inside and out . "

it's nights like this, when the darkness drowns me, and i drown my words in black ink and the haggard candlelight can't guide them back home .   and when i run out of paper, i write on my skin for not even the Bible poets have dared to dream of this permanence . the moon looks like a broken clavicle and my breath in the wintry air looks like  a ghost .  the cold can't exorcise the place where my heart used to be .   it's nights like this, when i'm afraid .

it is  november  under my skin and i wonder if you're homesick for that place… probably not . but it's too cold in here anyway, and it's been snowing for the past 45 days, my blood is already white and the snow has covered my lungs, my liver, and my heart. does no one here have a shovel to take my pain away? no ? okay… i'll just get the same old tea, boiled in the same old memories of you and i'll drink it hot so it'll  burn me, hurt me, melt me down, warm me up . but this hypothermia can only be treated with march or… you .

i bought myself secondhand faith, because these prayers have been said before.

sometimes, my bones crack from the weight of the air i'm not breathing. my heart was always heavier than an aluminum statue. my thoughts sometimes commit suicide by jumping off of my eyelids, and never have i grieved over that loss, but sometimes, the light they keep telling me about darkens the world.