violent-void

[violent-void]

There was a time when thinking about you would physically hurt me. Where me lungs would close up and every ragged breath was car exhaust in my throat. Where my heart would beat so hard it got letters of acceptance into state marching bands and the weight of recruiting bass drummers crushed my chest. It wasn't even at the bad thoughts. Countless sleepless nights imagining how soft your lips would feels brushing on the skin of other boys or trying to pinpoint which positive adjective you'd choose to cushion the blow of rejection had hardened me for that. Instead it was in haunted hallways and close-knit classrooms that the shallow curl of your smiling lips would be the spiral into panic attacks. Soft sunlight through thin sheets reflected off your alabaster body would be a blinding pain searing though my skull. I don't get that anymore. I don't hurt like I used to. So bad and so opposingly lovely.

[violent-void]

Why is it that when I imagine that my fiscal responsibilities are in order it's called planning but when I plan to fly away on alabaster angel wings to a world where there isn't any pain it's all in my imagination?

[violent-void]

Fingers interweave. Eyes pirouette around streetlights and leap from world to world. Irises lost in fields of irises. In time footsteps drum on soft roadside. Souls strike ground between even upstrokes.

[violent-void]

Alchemy

Each syllable of my polished rambling starts as a golden wisp.

A hope, a dream, a shadow on the wall that is both nothing and everything.

The intangible thoughts rendezvous in my heart before they turn into a gas. A smoke, a breeze, an element that holds the air of my feelings. It travels up into my voice box and is pulled and twisted and mutilated by the vibrations of my throat as it quivers at the feel of you.

It is a compound. It is a mixture of all I want to say and all my body knows not to let me.

It is the liquid in my mouth that whitewashes itself and makes it the reflection on a pond. The shimmering mirror that is neither cloudy nor clear.

It is the truth but only as it allows itself to be seen. It is in the eyes of the beholder.

It is a solid. A weight at the tip of my tongue that drops from my lip as a thousand tonnes of iron.

It is a memory. It is a truth and a corrupted dream. It is a solid that I envision as a sound. A resounding dream in my ears that is nothing like the wisp in my chest.

That I could cut myself open and have you see these syllables as they should really appear.

It is a lie. This remnant of a dream is nothing but the shadow of a lie.

[violent-void]

Four days without food just so I can pretend that the pit in my stomach wasn't dug by you

[violent-void]

I used to put in my headphones, listen to music and feel the lyrics, now I put in my headphones turn the music so loud that it hurts, so at least I'll feel something.

[violent-void]

How long before my heartbeat goes back to normal? ‘cause it’s been six days now and my chest is starting to hurt .

[violent-void]

My Heart Throbs, My Heartthrob

Just a headache I hurt you when I’m there and am clarity when I’m not; he is the pill you swallow, dancing your body to make me go away

Or maybe he’s the prescription bottle, the necessary devil, the one that serves you seconds of peace in a turmoil that is me

Maybe he is the high after the ninth pill, a pain that hurts better than I do

Maybe he is a migraine, made to be me better

[violent-void]

I had words I wanted to say. Some shallow thought about stars and how we would stare up and feel connected. I had words, I had lines and quips and quotes and sighs of indignation and meandering morose; but then you looked up at me. My being became pliable and somehow folded on itself and became willing subject to those green prisons. Shackled and bound, torn and crowed the ruler of my own cell. But your slave forever.

[violent-void]

I love the single curl in a lock you've forced around a finger I love the crease in your lip that your teeth have etched I love the way you hate your eyes despite them being beautiful I love the way we dance around each other and play this game of cat and mouse I love the glow of your skin caught between each cover I love the smile you'll throw me before you nervously take it back I love the way you throw my cigarette against the ground I love every little piece but the whole can't have the words.

[violent-void]

He liked the cold, the skin on his arms pointed and poised to begin a symphony of feeling. Their conductor's wand the thin, tan brown hairs that covered him, each one iridescent and losing their opaqueness as the outlines of their beings faded into air that held the icy weight of conviction. As the frost settled on him the screams of his tired bones played the bass notes that underpinned the silent melody that wouldn't play. Forlorn lyricism laced his frosted form but counterpoint was his comfort.

[violent-void]

A god-fearing existentialist. His cutting niceties and pleasing slurs fed the masses their massive doses of empty apathy and sarcasm. He encapsulated the world in the most concise breath behind a syllable and yet kept himself prisoner by each comma of his rambling. What he said in one word was everything compared to what he spoke in one year.

[violent-void]

I have a million and one words I want to set free but each one is somehow in two places at once, they rest carelessly on the tip of my tongue but also dance and laugh outside my grasp. The melody I want to sing is poignantly quiet, the beat stagnant and broken, the prose strikes a pose that I don’t understand. Screaming, choking all I want you to hear, only half breaches the barrier we’ve somehow built between us. Perfectly peaceful yet carelessly cruel the bridge that had so long joined us burns as the flames twirl and flicker in the corner of our eyes, within our vision yet outside our comprehension. The few words I most want you to hear are the only ones you are deaf to.

[violent-void]

A belief in an ethereal existence beyond the realm of the living, it had an intrinsic link to never being fully alive. What point was there in living completely when death was always within grasp, more that that, when it beckoned and taunted and tempted one toward it. When every deed you had done would be forgotten and fade. When everything you'd ever been would one day be dust, blowing in a wind that had forgotten the taste of humanity, weary of it's constant motion and settling in it's final days as it tears away from itself and becomes ribbons of something insignificant in the scope of the universe. Floating away to form some distant and oblivious star.

[violent-void]

The world was painted by a rainbow of every shade of gray, each one masquerading in the guise of beautiful hues, lying to themselves and denying their true dreary form. Where reds danced and courted yellows and merged to form an orange glow that brightened the world he saw nothing, the beauty and honesty of a global canvas eluded him and skipped around his grasp in playful defiance. All he saw were lies.

[violent-void]

He'd never been a morning person, there was to him an innate sadness to it. The slivers of sunlight coalescing in the quiet, still, wholistic realm of darkness. A deathly invader heralding the daily massacre of peaceful uniformity. No, mourning did not suit him.