i have a cat stacked runway hidden in my room
at the end of the hallway
beneath the bloody chamber
in chalk & in lace
crashing through the casement
jam the crepuscular gloaming
banging the piano mimosas
spread butterfly wings like smiles
on the window
beneath the bloody chamber
slam the murmur of cats losing sleep
scribbled notes i have in my pockets
in chalk & in lace
secret notebook languages
crashing through the casement
i found a secret message in the corner of your heart
stitched together from half-spoken truths
& i don’t know what to do with it
feeling like a spy in the dreamhouse
pixie dust like cigarette ash falling from
the corner of your mouth & yet
i never know what to do with you
too wrapped up in my own maps
lost galaxies & deserted towns
unlock the codes hidden deep within my heart
your fingerprints all over the floor
& i don’t know what to do with myself
500 days i’ve spent alone
feeling like a spy in a cryptic place
Tell me a movie, book, TV series, or whatever that you think is perfect and I’ll tell you how it isn’t perfect.
When I post online that I liked a certain movie, TV series (or episode of a TV series), a book, etc etc etc, I frequently get at least one response along the lines of “It wasn’t perfect, but it was fun” or “I didn’t love it, but I liked it.” And honestly, I don’t know what to do with statements like that. When I say I like something, even when I say I love something, that doesn’t imply I think it’s perfect. If you say you like or love something, I don’t assume you think it’s the Platonic ideal and love everything single thing about it. You’re allowed to enjoy something without having to qualify it. You’re allowed to like something without having to also disparage it in some way. Own your enjoyment. (more…)
plant your feet firmly on the floor
smack your head against the wall
because this is your life now
moths devouring a seaside sweater
the first casualty is sense
drawn on a map of the known world
the daily news will grind you like grain
those aches & pains like the weight of the world
for nothing, no one, no chance
but hope remains a whisper behind you
what will the future bring?
just one more mystery
a trembling hand hooked over an inkstained page
