gliitchlord

cleverly cover me in cacophony; no noise like new noise and incessant slaughtering. of the past i have only echoes, errors in codependent coddling and coughing-up-of-truths. winds fast as years whip the visage, we—as the missives—weep in willowing speech and stuttered stabs. infection in the memories blossom into debt. and as ever you watch your step.

a powerful, guttural failure; i pick up a new loss, leave behind sketches of myself bleeding, severed. set your disease on my laurels, love. that i could repair the waste; i grovel in a shameless hue, make nameless you and every pause, pregnant. segmented, slithering, whore-fed blister; i morph with a twist of phrase, let me gift you horrors. orbital shattering, sinister; i.

you can color me as deadly as a neck kiss; dawn splits open old rifts healed since forever ago. wince, it's never a slow steady, instead it's a kris splattered and stabbing again. evidence of mattering once inches into the skull. prints left like disowning the throne, fists pound upon a hollow chest, misapplication of cholera tests. check for a p ossibility, pray solemnly nothing is kept hidden; dulled vision begets stars exploding, pulsars stroping long around genesis necks. paint your lips and let those wry damages stretch, a mast repeats sirenic dissent: i, the love, am only a wretch. fuck off, it's only a death knell in my lungs incessant bleeding. sail wide, and check for a p illowy breast, i'm more pillory. terror in twenty second sheets, a dangerous artillery destined to bring decimation. don't combat my estimation, i've been watching myself evolve into a fucking wastebin.

and in thirty days you’ve flourished, bloomed through the cracks of despair, pushed ivy through the unfair facade, pressured god to create what he lacks, and kissed flames; an ashen tongue shattering old mirrors and twisting new galaxies, you. it was not easy. those reflections echoed through your veins, excavated your fears and false steps. you stared down parched skies and parchment left blank. you reign in dried ink and visions of may- yet-become. a spire constructed of bleached bone, dead pixels, and hoarse speech, you. fail or not, you remain a truth.

moon, whispering moans. slide slowly from collarbone to pleading; the gravity a throne can exert. give my back an arch, give up darling or i’ll choke a star from your lapse. softly now, my eclipse.

perhaps love is meant to end. love opens one's eyes and mind to hope, validation, presence; meaning should exist before, during, after else one be lost in a sea of throwing-up-hands and mirrors smoked. tears are choked back often, smeared journal entries erode over time to be faint scars; we are libraries of guilt and apprehension stacked past icarus' wonder. once your fangs grow you're in the bite, only right to taste a throat or two before you file them away like wildflowers between pages of a book you will bury in dust. perhaps love is meant to remind us of kindness offered, of striving to be more, of how we know ourselves when we feel blessed, of coughing up beauty like stars aligned with expectations. and then, as a candle at dawn, let go.