I cannot pretend to write for anyone but myself. This account is for such useless literary prattle.
is my main account.
The Delicacies of PossessionI could pick at your bones with the fondest intentions,The Delicacies of Possession by ~everystupidstar
drafting a home for myself in the space between your ribs
or the hollow beneath your clavicle.
I could slide my fingers between your fingers
or nest them gently in the hair that gathers loosely at the nape of your neck.
I could dam up the rivers and lakes in your eyes
and sift gold from the dregs.
I could draw up maps upon your back,
trace paths of mountain ranges and valleys up your spine,
settle dust with my fingertips.
Now, if only you’d open your heart for colonization.
You're just one of those lionhearted raritiesFloating around, never landing in one place,You're just one of those lionhearted rarities by ~everystupidstar
I once loved you, but lost the ability.
When I was younger, I caught you.
Trapped in a Bell Jar, what if I told you everything?
It's all a lie. It's all a lie.
I’ve woken up analyzing my existence.
Ah, suffering’s the blessing bestowed.
When the days are cold, I listen to the birdsong.
My mind's a barren wasteland in a sea of dreams.
Promise me you won’t forget me floating into the darkness,
subliminal and defeathered—
Hold me, soul.
You can’t try to be in love while holding up the moon.
I am standing in a field full of dying flowers.
My tongue is laden with Nutmeg:
the form of this echo among the fluid.
You know. Misery. Company. Blah. Blah. Blah.I am human and we are humanYou know. Misery. Company. Blah. Blah. Blah. by ~everystupidstar
and I ache—oh, how we ache:
wrist and heart and bone and brain
over money, recognition, and the end,
the terrible end, cluttering our subconscious
with scribbled ideas and missed deadlines
and tiny thoughts of how this could have come out so much better if we had just—
And yet (my, our, your) eyes are breeders of contempt,
silent defilers in search of that tiny thread that unravels self-confidence.
When they find it, they give it a tug (misspellings, anatomical issues).
Down crashes the Universe of I,
shattering into pieces of what could have been.
You are only as good as the assigned reading,
as the professor’s lecture,
as the wax fruit gathering dust upon the table,
as the unsaved canvas.
“You are just a writer.”
“You are only an artist.”
“Why do I need you?”
“What good are you?”
Creativity is amorphous and fleeting,
but the ache lasts.
A Crack in the Heart-Shaped Compact MirrorSo, last night I was tightroping Orion’s beltA Crack in the Heart-Shaped Compact Mirror by ~everystupidstar
and I got to thinking about you and me
and everything in between.
I’d say we ended pretty badly.
What with the cold shower
and the fact that you don’t
take traveler’s checks or
money orders in exchange for love.
I can’t help being cheap.
You know I got a thing for
your early-thirties ramen romance.
I’d love to take my chopsticks
and get down and dirty with your
high sodium content—but you
give me heartburn enough at is it is.
And maybe you ought to loosen the knot
in those shoe strings of fate.
You can see I’m already undone.
Did I mention I prefer the five-meter dash
to the marathon? Really, I love the idea
of you handling my baton and we could practice
cardio together. But, I digress.
What I mean to say is I’ll try and fix us the best I can.
I’m not so good with sweet nothings
and I’m not even sure we ever really clicked,
but I’m all for spinning the barrel again.