19; izar.
May 25, 2017 3:13:36 GMT -5
Post by lucius branwen / 10 — fox on May 25, 2017 3:13:36 GMT -5
*as a warning, just in case: some suicidal thoughts
The birds sing,
soft and
swaying
at four a.m.,
notes lost to
the darkness,
a tiring hemisphere
before dawn.
I am
nineteen
in the
morning.
A thought
that is as soft and
swaying and lost
at four a.m,
as feathers,
falling
slower than
I wake.
Something
hot curls into a
hungry plexus,
the birds
fly stygian, blind,
a poisonous
ache
growing
leafy and green
in
wet bones,
water damaged
structures crumbling
to the touch
of a stem,
uncoiling
from a
tumultuous ocean
for the
sun.
I can't sleep.
It twists
at
my
stomach,
opens,
makes pretty
flowers.
And if I were brave
enough,
I'd kill myself.
Maybe,
five years –
I have
never
wanted
to press a knife
on my skin
to
make myself
bleed,
to hurt,
to die –
but rather,
there are
moments, days, months
where I wish
I could cut
myself open,
peel away this
skin
like
an itch
from a
frayed
sweater,
empty my stomach
of an ancient
hurt, a dream,
a lost
boy
building
his kingdom
from insides,
polyester skin,
and sea monster
swimming emerald
in rot.
No,
I have
never wanted
to kill myself, but –
but
there are
moments
like organs
I wish I
could cut
away,
memory
like blood
I wish
I could drain,
and death
like life I wish
I could be
re-born.
Because
zero,
the size of
nonexistence,
the number of
perfect and
beautiful
and
Luce,
because
hunger,
a language
for words
I could not say,
a love
I did not have,
a boy who
I was not to be.
Because
there are
moments.
And that’s all
there ever
will be.
Sunlight over me,
he eats
away at a raw
shoreline,
ebb and flow
rushing red,
bleeding
to her pulse,
bathes smooth-scaled
and shadowy in watery
recollections,
sinks me
and
I let him.
I always
let him.
(I am so
tired.)
A sky
moves slow
and cloudy,
still fragile,
green hunger budding
solar knots
and I feel
different,
not older, just
different.
Dawn
lights a flame.
At nineteen,
there are
only two ways
to die,
organic,
ugly,
magical
death wish
ungranted
after four
years
of listening
to his echoes,
dampened hopes
overflowing,
sodden, and so much
depends on a
glass bowl,
divinizing
last chances,
statue of adolescence,
a black and white
photograph,
preserved,
perfect.
Maybe
I was
supposed to die
four years ago,
when there were
no more
visions
to repeat –
a cyclic,
perennial
boy growing
out of fifteen as
his life fell apart,
faltering at
the slim skin edges
before it c a v e d
completely
in the blink
of an eye.
If I were brave
enough, I’d
kill myself now –
cut
and drain
and rebirth,
and if
I were
brave
enough,
I'd be
Izar
without
him.
If
I were
brave
enough,
if
if
if only.
Sunlit
blinds draw
candles on
blankets,
a row
of gold
flickering,
across my skin,
my hands,
and nausea,
deep in the mantel
calms me.
I feel
light-headed,
floating, saltwater
haze, Lucem,
the light.
But
in a minute,
I’ll be empty.
In a minute
I’ll be
okay.
I raise my hand,
catch yellow,
watch the flame
at my finger tips
turn red, translucent,
bring it to
my lips and
in a minute
I’ll be
nineteen,
nothing.
Birds sing,
he blooms.
And I
blow
out all
the
candles.
The birds sing,
soft and
swaying
at four a.m.,
notes lost to
the darkness,
a tiring hemisphere
before dawn.
I am
nineteen
in the
morning.
A thought
that is as soft and
swaying and lost
at four a.m,
as feathers,
falling
slower than
I wake.
Something
hot curls into a
hungry plexus,
the birds
fly stygian, blind,
a poisonous
ache
growing
leafy and green
in
wet bones,
water damaged
structures crumbling
to the touch
of a stem,
uncoiling
from a
tumultuous ocean
for the
sun.
I can't sleep.
It twists
at
my
stomach,
opens,
makes pretty
flowers.
And if I were brave
enough,
I'd kill myself.
Maybe,
five years –
I have
never
wanted
to press a knife
on my skin
to
make myself
bleed,
to hurt,
to die –
but rather,
there are
moments, days, months
where I wish
I could cut
myself open,
peel away this
skin
like
an itch
from a
frayed
sweater,
empty my stomach
of an ancient
hurt, a dream,
a lost
boy
building
his kingdom
from insides,
polyester skin,
and sea monster
swimming emerald
in rot.
No,
I have
never wanted
to kill myself, but –
but
there are
moments
like organs
I wish I
could cut
away,
memory
like blood
I wish
I could drain,
and death
like life I wish
I could be
re-born.
Because
zero,
the size of
nonexistence,
the number of
perfect and
beautiful
and
Luce,
because
hunger,
a language
for words
I could not say,
a love
I did not have,
a boy who
I was not to be.
Because
there are
moments.
And that’s all
there ever
will be.
Sunlight over me,
he eats
away at a raw
shoreline,
ebb and flow
rushing red,
bleeding
to her pulse,
bathes smooth-scaled
and shadowy in watery
recollections,
sinks me
and
I let him.
I always
let him.
(I am so
tired.)
A sky
moves slow
and cloudy,
still fragile,
green hunger budding
solar knots
and I feel
different,
not older, just
different.
Dawn
lights a flame.
At nineteen,
there are
only two ways
to die,
organic,
ugly,
magical
death wish
ungranted
after four
years
of listening
to his echoes,
dampened hopes
overflowing,
sodden, and so much
depends on a
glass bowl,
divinizing
last chances,
statue of adolescence,
a black and white
photograph,
preserved,
perfect.
Maybe
I was
supposed to die
four years ago,
when there were
no more
visions
to repeat –
a cyclic,
perennial
boy growing
out of fifteen as
his life fell apart,
faltering at
the slim skin edges
before it c a v e d
completely
in the blink
of an eye.
If I were brave
enough, I’d
kill myself now –
cut
and drain
and rebirth,
and if
I were
brave
enough,
I'd be
Izar
without
him.
If
I were
brave
enough,
if
if
if only.
Sunlit
blinds draw
candles on
blankets,
a row
of gold
flickering,
across my skin,
my hands,
and nausea,
deep in the mantel
calms me.
I feel
light-headed,
floating, saltwater
haze, Lucem,
the light.
But
in a minute,
I’ll be empty.
In a minute
I’ll be
okay.
I raise my hand,
catch yellow,
watch the flame
at my finger tips
turn red, translucent,
bring it to
my lips and
in a minute
I’ll be
nineteen,
nothing.
Birds sing,
he blooms.
And I
blow
out all
the
candles.
