sltb0y

[sltb0y]

dirty

Dear God, qu'est-ce que c'est? We talked in private box pews of "Justice." the tongue in which Adam wooed Eve. No one hearing. No one noticing, one more kid hiding one less shade expressing itself, like a colour, falling off the colour wheel. Lord, I'm sure you're right but they dance in the street crashing their necks out the cigarette box Dear God, I'm sorry, but I need to consider myself one more survivor of the massacre before I'm dead.

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in limbo

everything about me is in limbo, including my state of mind

one blink— there are figures sitting at the table. fujifilm grain timestamped with a 2009 nikon, fingers hovering over a keyboard icon

two blinks— the leaves cascade in slow-motion. stuttering steps, of undevotion frames streaming by, one a second looking unfinished, despite stretching a neck in

three blinks— four breaths. dig my nails in, plant feet down, overwhelm my senses forgetting how bright when life condenses

eyes wide, legs akimbo remembering how much my life's in limbo.

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today's embers

today, i am drawn to yesterday's embers. so much roams in the space between ignition and combustion a length of time, a lingering haste

and to think, it was such a waste. burning up the ground upon i stood in a rage so bright, lit a match, i should—

but tomorrow, i will be drawn to today's embers. for a rattling erupts every moment it could, calls my temper for ease in setting fire to wood.

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please, a favour

can you carve a place for me in your heart? not unconditionally, just temporarily, i'd like to be loved.

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always freckled

you always held me, with a tenderness i didn't deserve. the soft callouses of your palms swipe away the streams on my cheeks, leaving behind a constellation of stars in your wake.

it's as if you always evade me, your gracefulness, i didn't inherit nor your love, mettle, or merit.

and i'll always have the seeds of your love, dotting my costume as an unending reminder of my failure to bloom.

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stubborn little kid

there's a little kid pounding in my chest, gnawing on my sternum, pulling my ribs from my tergum.

nails torn: red, raw, gone. on and on, reaching into the deepest morceau of my desperate torso.

i can only look on in awe at the stubborn drive lost to nails torn raw.

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scorched palace

flames are so pretty.

transforming something mundane and grotesque, into a bright spectacle of fire; sweltering off the raw sickly resin dripping down a golden sticky confection.

the pads of my fingers burn to ash when i cradle radiant embers, hoping to light myself so luminous.

in a destruction so pure and violent, the pyre births a life one oh so brilliant.

and so, i look upon the devouring bonfire made of the family brownstone, and i tell myself, "flames are so pretty."

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the swing of life and death © dialvenus // faith

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blood pact

there are secrets held within my bones, weaved into the fabric of my being. i can't help but want to bleed them out, let my pulse return to the blank slate that marks the beginning.

rewind the grains that trickle down into a pile, and toss them back to the sky to collide with the years so dearly passed by.

my veins are knotted through years of unsavoury abuse, secrets flow languidly clotting my arteries. if my limbs were undone, piece by piece, could i be born anew? unscathed in the world's corrupting view?

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defiant

it's a fine establishment.

they clamp hooks into my soft palate, dragging out sinful confessions of loving habits.

i'm a defiant child, they'll say as i stare down the diplomat who takes my childish passion as merciless permission.

no matter how long i doubt, they continue to pry from my bullet-torn mouth.

(but, they're right, i'm defiant and i'll spitefully shout it inwards and out)

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All I am is a swarm of flies.

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funny bone

when i stare too hard this body is no longer mine. the edges go fuzzy, as if it were divine, contours combine and realign, shaping into one malignant sign.

flies pour out of my lungs, buzzing around to intertwine with the nerves circling my spine. they tickle and whine as they clamber and overwhelm; creating within my body, a shrine.

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(barely) a prayer

there's a calm when drowning, a quiet that claims you when your lung starts burning.

making peace with god is easier when staring up at heaven from the murky depths of ascension.

sometimes, i wish i was still there at the bottom of the lake, accepting death with barely a prayer.

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prickly/sensitive

māmā calls me mǐngǎn (敏感), sensitive. tears dribble valleys into my cheeks, sensitive. strong boys don't cry, they look into the sun with squinted eyes, and they certainly are not sensitive.

roses are delicate, māmā says when i pluck one from the garden. but māmā adores them, even if delicate is synonymous with sensitive.

if i can't be sensitive like me, maybe i'll be delicate like a rosy sea.

then, māmā calls me zháshǒu (扎手), prickly like a rose. difficult to handle. argumentative. but at least, i'm no longer sensitive.

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hook and eye

hooked into my fish eye and pulling me asunder, urging my destiny as the boy wonder.

it keeps me hooked.

hooked on the frail love that temporarily blinds my eye, daring my spirit to defy.

god knows who stays, reeling in the tattered forms of a world burnt through holy storms.

as we run from our fates, i wonder at the dichotomy we create; spitting in the face of the end may be the only victory we innovate.