gliitchlord

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.

show me your neck, i’ll show you how resentment is grown: slowly, darkening skies, crashed cars, and skinned bones. i won’t mean it, i’m known for nothing less than deception; validate at reception, get the app on your phone. new carpet bombing at home, radicalized internal design, infernal pries open your eyelids. alone. show me respect, i’ll throw you into a tenet that won’t be upheld, camcorder up on the shelf, pull tape out to hang death’s knell fast upon the mirror. it’s hell to rewrite giver as irrelevant shell. i pick slivers of breath out of my self, what good is a word if it’s held sideways like chin tilted, beckoning. tell me your name again, i fell asleep drunk on your nape.

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.