floodlights of neon advertisement for cheap thrills arc upwards, high above your head and the rainbow persuasion leaves an ache in your temples and a sourness on your tongue. you're kidding himself in the possibility, the empty fantasy of a wild ride where it matters that people know your name and your smile could mean dirty, shameless money. maybe what you needs is a crisis, a wreck, anything you could look back on when scrabbling for a defining moment, so you could justify feeling so listless. with this much success, you're not supposed to feel wires biting your wrists in suspension, right?
when morning is unforgiving to those lying with the soles of their feet bared, you cover your eyes with a dry palm and swallows around a craving for literary genocide. your sanguinolency roars in your eardrums and your fingernails grate on the wood floor, because as much as you’d like to carve propriety into the discord of pages and letters and typewriter rebellion, the mess it would leave behind is one you don't have the heart to ignore.
this is what you know: that time is not the pocket watch but the chain it’s attached to; that you could collect soda tabs until you died but if you don't learn how to hide anxiety better, you're going to run fast out of excuses; that you are a five letter word for solecism.
this is what you know, but don’t want to: the intimacy of knees tucked behind yours, whorls of fingertips clutching the backslash bone of your hip; how to fit two wardrobes in one closet; how many hours it takes you to become tired of watching the ashes of every promise you made to yourself settle, and that you've been the one to hold the torch.
complacency is a color you haven't worn in ages, unsatisfied and terrified of and for the future. grins are a poor substitute for the right words and downcast eyes are even worse, but not even a colossal amount of pot can erase the trembling from your hands or force the gears of your tongue to click into place. you fumble for your wallet and shove bills at the cabbie, mutter a semblance of gratitude and duck out of the taxi.
when morning is unforgiving to those lying with the soles of their feet bared, you cover your eyes with a dry palm and swallows around a craving for literary genocide. your sanguinolency roars in your eardrums and your fingernails grate on the wood floor, because as much as you’d like to carve propriety into the discord of pages and letters and typewriter rebellion, the mess it would leave behind is one you don't have the heart to ignore.
this is what you know: that time is not the pocket watch but the chain it’s attached to; that you could collect soda tabs until you died but if you don't learn how to hide anxiety better, you're going to run fast out of excuses; that you are a five letter word for solecism.
this is what you know, but don’t want to: the intimacy of knees tucked behind yours, whorls of fingertips clutching the backslash bone of your hip; how to fit two wardrobes in one closet; how many hours it takes you to become tired of watching the ashes of every promise you made to yourself settle, and that you've been the one to hold the torch.
complacency is a color you haven't worn in ages, unsatisfied and terrified of and for the future. grins are a poor substitute for the right words and downcast eyes are even worse, but not even a colossal amount of pot can erase the trembling from your hands or force the gears of your tongue to click into place. you fumble for your wallet and shove bills at the cabbie, mutter a semblance of gratitude and duck out of the taxi.
