foraoises

the man with the cigarette doesn't blink an eye for you, never looks away. the moths in his lower abdomen dance salsa today, praise your subtle being until night disappears into the sun.

sometimes her cardigans are woven from blueberries, but they haven't been for a while. "this morning smells like granny smiths, honey, come see, they're growing" says her dad. but plastic apples do not grow, she knows that, she's not five anymore. --- she hides in her blanket forts, protects her wooden embattlements with dream catchers and purring rivers of silence. she hugs a pillow tightly, presses it to her face and refuses to breathe until the scent leaves her room. then sobs like a child because oh, it smelled so good and her dad's gone now. "sweetie, you can't aimlessly stare at a ceiling while looking like you're busy", says her mu

[his killer doesn't stut ter, pentameters not iambic but manic. it's a stubborn one.] i. he is so tall, leaping, insurmountability for roughly 144 hours. electric, ecstatic, incessant reaching for the tips of omega centauri. "could it ever end?" — never, no, never ii. if only he were less, smaller than himself. he pretends to be a woodlouse sometimes but there's not enough space. it is 11 am & he has stumbled upon his neverending.

[there's a loudness] you exude. i don't think these wisdom teeth ever got pulled out or cared for. while you only listen to classic rock ballads, brahms's hungarian dance no.5 & sometimes the woodpecker trying to work its way into your heart. i bet you are less confident than you seem. i bet you carefully fold your apostrophes, that your lonely nights are nothing more than salty alcohol & teaspoons of self-pity. as the violins grumble & louder, louder— [i know] you wither, wish for the horned man in the night.

i prefer your sloppy 2 ams, hubrises that shine — without a fall. grimacing at valleys and when they smile back, throw your loudest roars. never sleep, you are golden while half-squinted & dark mountains to wear as binoculars. you are blacksmith when letters are redhot, you burn fingers like candlesticks. they will smoke in the morning. lick them cold and start over—

i am my own muse, my own disaster of hide and seek. sometimes i forget how to breathe, ask for reciprocation but my lungs wallow in their silence, stick out tongues & quite carelessly caress my backbone until i give in and stop breathing, [it's only for today,] quietly on tip toes. beautiful alarms & white smile toothpaste dresses & i am my own muse, my own disaster of hide, hide, hide

due date passed, brains mould away but i shrug it off my shoulders and stroll life with arrogance & royal titles. these never-ending stories wear me out, wear me to the bone, stone-cold. i shake with apathy — do not [dare to] look for days that never missed me. sometimes mirrors stare back & i shed my skin, triumphantly.

train windows evaporate, letters erased and again as bright eyes stare through us from their tiny shells [flickering, shyly, hope no one notices and for their perpetual lithium] velocity wipes away the city, replaced with a dark ness that swallows it whole

i don't know how to welcome you to a world that breathes black mirrors & hurricanes my limbs keep growing towards the light, but never bloom [no metaphors] air empty with jealousy, where nothing happens because it is too likely at least we stopped smoking wildes & van goghs, the nicotine of art was too much [but never enough]

you are triumphant in your smiles, i suppose your forte did not consist of loudness none at all and dimples cannot talk but yours won't stop telling stories so i dream of being old, crinkled, but never find the days that float like swans and hovercrafts, slowly but aware