The Me without You can't loveSecrets are to lies as embraces are to truths. I loved him, once. I never mention how it lives in me still, ever quiet and enormous. That's why people need therapists nowadays, you know. There's never anyone to talk to, not like in your youth. The immensity, the sheer weight of your doubt, the Fears, the despair of being yourself and of not being yourself -- there's no end to it, not an angel for you is spared. You are distinctly alone, if not but in love. And there it is, the nature of love being really the discovery of self and the love which ensues -- where we reach a crescendo, the symphony builds to reveal its plan all along. We love, anThe Me without You can't love
a tragic love poem.mawkish but thrilling i think it's love feels like good pressure pain, pleasure, phantom pain and all invitation for trauma a century nonpareil i think it's love, but why trust it? you can make me infinite and that's another lie i just miss you all the time sick with treasure yes, it's pressure, phantom pleasure when you're gone.a tragic love poem.
flying home for the holidaysshades a passport what else am I gonna need?flying home for the holidays
the nights come on strong
and I'm lighthearted! too conflicted and still! ticket for the aisle supper, lactose-free, stranger, speeding and I'm cursed leave me here? -- I could be Atlantic... No, no, sycophant -- ticket, passport, destination. what's left now but to fight it? I just want to fuck the stewardess but I'm
thinking up a screenplay -- like a holiday movie, nothing you'd watch. everyone prescribed, the dialogue suffers. destination... vegan stranger smiles at me,
kills me
Natural darkI walked outdoors today into a nightmare, a Massachusetts twilight. It's always too early, too orange, purple, too grey. The sky refuses us stars and natural dark. If this were some July, I would see faces, the passerby; now every hastened winter sundown shadows my city. Every gesture in the darkness seems to weigh down and cut. Notorious interactions with strangers are confined to night and the wicked, frowning creatures that play there. The December demons are all about; I pause to discover I am one of them. Men and women slip by cowardly, black in shadow, timid eyed. I think I'm wanted, but there's no way to tell. I'm a demon damn the caleNatural dark
New account.
