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untitledI have spent so much time planning for storiesthat I almost forgot about ours.
08/05/15Antaaymmärtämättömien nauraa: he eivät näe sinua kuten minä.May 8, 2015Letthe unwise laugh: they don't know you as I do.
romanticized diminishinglet's pretend the fossils are sprinkled with the petals of a love that we believed rose above all.this is romanticized diminishing, an art form of bending memories so the light bounces off of them, flickering rainbows.a eulogy of darlings expired. a final love poem, roping around itself, as an endless knot.before the realized genesis.hannah:אַהֲבָהwith this young arroganceand toiling, soiled esteem,leaning towards your bosom,you held me up in those moments.my muffled breaths,your heart caught themand my hands searchedfor your hips.your mouth looked for mineand i never knew what that felt like.so i let it happenbecause we neededto be wanted.my fever spreadwhen you lost your wall,and i fell inside of yourscreened temple.a tumultuous tug-of-wargutted our insidestill our throats burned raw,but i fought for you.you fought for me.even in your own strange way.i am not who i amwithout you, and y
you and whose armysoldier, what measurecould encompass your couragein staring truth in its dead eyesand then inviting it into your armswithout a single whisperto acknowledge the pain it will cause?you walk to the beatof a powerful melody, the one set downby the ink from your veins,and for your sake, i hope that thosewho aim their blades at your heartwill know it is better to stand down,for those who know best how to healalso know best how to hurt.and when you know this,an army of clattering catastrophes, apostrophes,impostors, and catharsisof blind mice only do so much damage.when you have the pot ready to boiland the knife ready to behead,shake earth and shake red,quake the stakes, slatethe dead, prepare themfor what's about to comein the current life.because the past (li(f)e)is only one flashlight, gaslightflickerswitch on its silhouetteaway from rearing its ugly,dangling head.
1,000 Paper CranesКогда вы спрасите, я отвечу: Все в порядке.Но это ложь...I do not know how to cope in this world;I can not say the reason for this heartache;But each and every night 1,000 paper cranes come to lifewhile mine own runs from me —Outside it rains, it poursas some deity mournsthe loss of its kindred,while I lit the lampsto see the work of my hands;down the stairs is hatred, deep-red.I hold up thin layers of paper,I fold and I fold, 'til they takethe form I want to see— the form I want to be.(As I am now:merely a carcass laying on the ground,just waiting for the vultures to come.)I do not know how to cope in the outside
cultureI didn't ever meanfor anyone's insidesto be out of alignment.I was a sirenin perfect silence,they beat their facesto smithereensto glimpse me.I wasn't bidding themsmash,I wasn't asking themto bring their wreckageto me.I wasn't quietenough.