his adam apple feels like an engine, the kind i start up when i want to go some place better. his throat is warm and moves like a river when he breathes. i think i can feel the air push through. i think i can taste the light in you.
and because of him, i don't want to sleep. i say it to myself almost every night, i think
i feel this thick like mud like tar
sticky ink instead of blood that doesn't run or flow
but it holds to me, clings like hard rain, moves like oil, melts like wax
i wait so patiently for things to end
but instead it runs like streams, spreads like veins into everything
like hollow webs, it sticks to me
falling, i said i want to sink
backwards against parks and lakes and bedroom walls
i want you to turn me over in front of everyone
i want your salt like the breath on my neck or the mud on my chest
and i'm sure it's what you want
dead skin, blood sucking, dropping out of school
blaming complete lack of sobriety
on the fact that there is nothing when we've never really tried anything
to prove ourselves wrong
i guess i don't blame god
he's not the reason that everything's wrong
i can only blame me
and my complete lack of dexterity and grace under pressure
and every pathetic attempt at modesty
sometimes i don't even know what's happening to me
and why you'll never have to ask
and how cold my face feels pressed against glass
and why when i wake up everything morning, i never feel the same
or how everything is always different, but i never want to change
legs slick with soap scum
i feel this thick like layers like scars
more resin than the oldest trees
bruises like banana leaves
no matter how you judge me
we're all in this together
it's not like i really believe
i can be for you what you are to me
all i see is hope, and i have to watch it go, but i didn't deserve to think things could be this way
suddenly i wake up, and i feel stupid
my dreams are good but mean nothing when i'm lucid
it's just like choking, and i can only blame myself
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