wed. aug. 2nd, 2:44 am.
Strip your senses of all you’re worth and tie what’s left to the flagpole in front of the church. Atop the bell tower, perched on the sunburned arms of the cross, crows whisper conspiracy theories. They saw you, across the street, through the rib cracks in the shades, sleeping in an attic. But they’ve also seen your real bed, lying naked and cold. The birds wake the church bells and the church bells wake the town, but you’ve been awake for days, empty, watching your hands shake like shivering children.
For Devin:
thurs. aug. 17th, 11:43 am.
I can tell—your eyes are cloudy and the smiles are only muscle memory, working against gravity—most lips are afraid of falling. Hair isn’t, but it is already dead. Beautiful and dead. I want to be dead like your hair—a silent waterfall, flowing over ancient rocks and smashing into some iron river, exploding in a plume of watery smoke. Only silent. Silent as your eyes, watching the neighbors sleep under a bruised sky, eyes held open by strings that turn to dust when the sun burns the skin of the horizon.
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