disposedprawn97

[disposedprawn97]

Things We Don't Talk About

His beholding eyes wander to and fro, 

Trying hard to evade mine. Glued to his laces

Which dangle and drift four stories high on brick

Walls, which we don’t fear the height of anymore

Because I said he could always land on his feet.

Radio blares static whispers of Kurt Cobain,

He tries to grasp onto the words like a Ghostbox

That he may have an expiration date, but they tumble

Out of his mouth in fits of grief, not for himself

Or for me, but for the summers that will end

And never happen again, for the songs we sang

That would never leave his lips again, for the nights

Spent driving for hours past red stoplights and

Drinking at the lakes with buzzing mosquitos, now

Sand between his fingers. My hand is slowly

Phasing through his, and his betraying body which I have

Known time and time again, glowing bright beside a 

Greying horizon descending into the dark, and the 

Whitman and Byron poems start to slip from his jeans,

Torn from library books—fragments of prayers of love

And denial. I don’t think I could drive a car with an empty

Passenger seat, or use a closet that didn’t share his 

Clothes—damp with sweat and aloe body wash.

If he were to fall he would land on his feet. Even if I elate him

With all the white lies and false promises of security,

When he is his own biggest threat, the road ahead

Ends in a cliff face—and this time we can’t speed past 

The red lights. Hitting the brakes would be the best mistake.

He melts into me, clutching clumps of cloth, seeking skin or

Some semblance of warmth. He told me to never speak of

What bile spilled from his mouth, to swear that the

Time we had would march as if it never stopped,

To let go only when there’s no point in taking control.

[disposedprawn97]

Stargaze

The undying love of cosmic embraces Quivering at the sight of a million specs in glimmering emptiness Living at the speed of light

Limbs stretching to the sky Hoping to gather celestial snowflakes in gracious palms Living off dark matter

As the horizon blackens softly The luminescence projects on conjoined stars Living as one

So much noise in the galaxies Death and rebirth of a billion bodies every second Living beside our brilliant universe

[disposedprawn97]

Untitled

If you want you can cry on my shoulder I’ll be here tonight and tomorrow The sycamores and willows Are starting to thin It’s best we just run and hide There’s a horizon to chase A past to never face A destiny that begins Not when you speak those words But when you mean it

[disposedprawn97]

Dollhouse

Thirty minutes off the interstate, around the corner from a deserted gas station, sits a facade of a house. White picket fence, fresh paint, trimmed grass, a porch populated with rocking chairs; hedges with immaculately precise shapes, a home overtly pristine it was almost perverse. Passing by it one would expect a golden retriever to bound outside the front door into the emerald brush, clutching a sun-beaten frisbee in its jaws. Overshadowing the conditions of the dilapidated properties around it, this block of wood and paint was an immaculate hallmark of the community. Deep within the bowels of suburban prison, in its innermost dungeons was a single cell guarded by a pearl-white door with a brass knob. The keyhole betrays a glimpse of pink walls, white drapes, dusty beams of sunlight, fuzzy brown carpeting, a play chest, and a small made bed decorated with commercial iconography. Collapsed in the middle of the floor is a small effigy; sewn mouth, button eyes, red yarn locks, an archaic red dress of thin fabric. She stares up into nothing, the same expression frozen and distilled, not the slightest shift disrupting the dust above. Even as the Sun mockingly dragged its sickening face over her own, drawling its churning profanities into the horizon, the Doll did not as much consider his presence. Arms outstretched, she realized that, even if she could, there was no incentive to confronting him—except perhaps entertainment, though the Doll could not even fathom such a concept anymore. The faces on her comforter averted their eyes once the lock clicked, and the knob turned. Contorted within the confounds of the wooden toy box, the Doll simply did not feel the discomfort her situation granted her. She was not flesh blood or bone inside, just cotton stuffing. As the chest lid closed, and she was officially retired, the Doll bored herself into a state of contemplation she always found herself in. She did something she never allowed herself to do; she asked questions. Finding no answers, she accepted her fate and patiently waited for the sun to shine again.

[disposedprawn97]

Forlorn, Foreboding, Forbidden

In the clear Whenever that will be I’ll make it life’s only purpose To be by your side Though they’ve killed me All those years before And will do the same Over and over and over and over I will make it back home by dawn

[disposedprawn97]

Cabin Fever

When I’m over the edge Having nowhere else to go You find me a way out And when I find that The trees hang too low Your limbs feel better Around my neck When the light flickers And shatters to dust Your warmth is all I’d need

Behind a lock Sealed and secured Beyond is a world Beguiling and bitter Violent and vile Sick and selfish Rotten and rabid In which our answers lie nowhere And my mind is so fuzzy The only home I need is you

[disposedprawn97]

Livin’ the Dream

Scalding vanilla ashtrays, The soft scrapings of rubber on concrete As the metal lurches into a bloody sea. Salted air, Arsenic lemonade, The tastes of despair.

Constellations shine like trash fires, Pitiful stains of lasting patterns; Juices of strained loins in dispassionate discourse. The beating of, The humming of, The churning of, The crinkling of, An impact of immediate fatality.

[disposedprawn97]

Angel

Feathers of flesh and blood Lift my feet above the ground Interloping with the sky Below me is scarred land Hate and love in its veins Above clouds ignorant of morality I forget my feeble binding to earth And accept what is immediate

[disposedprawn97]

Liftoff

Daunting, Empty, The outstretched airport corridors wait. Terminal to terminal, I take one step closer to my departure And I’m so afraid Not of the crash, Not of the height, Not of the loneliness, But of my destination.

[disposedprawn97]

Turtleneck Sweaters

There was a time Where our fingers would Dance as fervently as The stars in the sky

Where our days would Buzz past us like Passionate fireflies at dusk Glowing as your eyes

Extinguished that light is And I cannot draw Another breath without you My face grows blue

Your air is gone And your clothes are Resting in my closet The scent now fading

[disposedprawn97]

Hearth

Combing fingers Inner reaches Fields evergreen

Beastly passion Roaring, gnashing Burning eternally

Amber ecstasy Silky regret Arms unlocked

[disposedprawn97]

Feedback

When we’re alone Your laughs are drawn out with ease. Sincere, sanguine; Sour, sweet.

When we’re alone You speak a vulnerable language. Fluid, forgiving; Flawed, fond.

We were never in sync. The world around us Plagued with wild distortion, I hope I can tune to your frequency. Strained distance, Feedback aches. Yet in the end I knew we were on the same wavelength.

Yet it all depends on the transmissions you send.

[disposedprawn97]

The Great Inevitable

I found you on the ship

So loud you made my eardrums bleed

I wish I never knew you.

It eludes me how swiftly your arms move,

Forward and backward.

They chase each other

A game of tag,

You beckon me to listen,

But I cannot.

And that is my demise,

My blissful dilemma.

[disposedprawn97]

Self Doubt

The dopamine I crave is in your gaze, In your smile and in your gait. No carnal expedition would be close To the gratitude I feel at your side. My lawless admiration of a soul akin Knows no internal bounds, Only honey-soaked fantasies As nectar droplets on my temple. But in my way is a silhouette, A reflection that speaks bitter tongues. Although this facet will keep me bound, Never passion will it drain Neither thirst will it quench.

[disposedprawn97]

Crushed

Concrete fever dream trash pile Burning stars shine green red Night dark garage rooftop death White rocks in koi pond Time spent numb despondent nature Blood wasted drain pipe fantasy Again again life short lived

[disposedprawn97]

Oral Tradition

The only warm thing about you is the coffee in your mug,

And your cancer stick butts,

And your flushed cheeks after drinking, 

And your TV dinners I make you cook when I hate you,

And your burning spite for your boss,

And your past facade that I fell for.

The only times you say “I love you” are in the bed,

And in the shower,

And in the kitchen,

And in the public bathroom,

And in the car,

And in all the places you never want me seen.

[disposedprawn97]

Dummy

How were you supposed to know that I fell for you at that festival back in high school? Back when you bought us fried dough with that lake of miscellaneous syrups in the middle; I hated it, and it gave me such a horrible stomach ache after that I contemplated killing you, but at that moment I ate it with such joy because you gave it to me. It was such a simple, stupid thing to fall in love over, but isn’t that the funniest thing about it? Something about the glimmer in your eyes as you handed it to me, the treat delicately wrapped in its crinkled red paper blanket. You were so absorbed into the backdrop of caramel strung lights and rigged booth games, yet you so clearly stood out from the bustle of it all. I just wanted to take you on that Ferris wheel and stay at the top of it forever, looking over the town in your arms.

But none of it could’ve happened. It certainly won’t happen now. As you grew up, I seemed to remain in that same state of utter infatuation, the heart-struck kid with that disgusting fried festival concoction. I later realized that it didn’t start in that carnival; I always seemed to keep you at the back of my mind, ever since we first met a decade prior. Remember when you were so timid, I had to speak up for you in class? I never let you do much for yourself back then, always trying to protect you and take care of you, when I was really holding you back from being who you are. I hope you can forgive me for that, but I don’t think you mind the past nearly as much as I do.

You were always so cool, even in my worst moments, when you would console me—I took complete advantage of your selflessness, at times feigning struggle just to hear your voice. It’d be selfish to say that I took the stress off your shoulders, but I’d desperately done so much for you it’s not entirely out of the question. I only heard you yell once in my life, and it was at me. My juvenile crush mangled and warped into an obsession once college dawned on us. I doted over you like some neurotic apparition, watching over everything you did on social media, to the point where I skulked around your residency at times. When I found out what your lover was doing to you, an inane combustion of passion and rage intermixed with my lust for you consumed whatever my heart was at that point. I broke.

We went out for coffee every week up until our argument, which was way more time than I should’ve been allotted to see you. I watched you blossom into this kind, wholesome, and intelligent being that I held way above myself, a person that I could never even aspire to become. I looked up to you like some messiah and down at myself as your measly acolyte. I knew at some point you realized how much I’d transgressed,—or rather, how much of my true and ugly face peered out,—and began to speak more tight-lipped. There was tension at our meetings towards the end, an invisible but malicious demon looming between the two of us. The last time I saw you in person, when I started screaming and raving, I knew it was the end. You knew everything about me knowing everything.

The word you yelled at me, at the only time I ever heard you with such passion and intensity in your voice, was my name. You stood up and looked at me. Your eyes still shined as they did at that festival, your presence was still as ever-soothing and innocent as it always was, and you still stood out so well with your environment. When you screamed my name, I felt myself fall in love all over again, but I also fell to realization—I ruined every chance I had at getting close to you.

And even after all of that, you still invited me to your wedding. I don’t know if I’ll go—I don’t know if I deserve it. It’s like you’re handing me that deep-fried nonsense again, blessing me a second chance to love you like the friend you still are to me, that I never was to you. Trying to play puppeteer was the worst thing I could’ve done. If I were truly to cope with my feelings in a healthy way I would’ve let you be, or maybe I could’ve communicated how I felt better. I still fantasize incessantly about what could’ve been. But that’s the past you don’t bother to look back on. That’s the past I can never escape.

I love you, dummy.