lines and lines make quilts.

if i had thought this through,
honestly i wouldn`t be here.
bring me an ant in society,
a stick in the mud of my name.
bring me adolescent fantasies of
the inevitable, ringed eyes and ringed fingers,
woven tongues and sewn lips.
rag dolls, voodoo dolls,
spears and knives, words and worlds.
crack the looking glass.
maybe now i`ll see who i really am.
i`m not the fake, the world`s my stage.
"don`t kill the messenger."
be who you are, not who you (are)n`t.
this was the antiseptic to my cut,
aloe to my burn.
hello desperationlonelinesscoldnights.
hello sheltersafespacehome.
the streetlights make a mirage,
let your silk spindle hair run through
my fingertips like a waterfall,
stain your pillow like unforgivable
ink, teeth, blood.
poetry of the bed kind,
of the hot whispers and steamed windows.
innuendos hidden behind fingers,
behind curtains.
wish on me, make me alive.
"make me real."
call me senile, lock me up.atleast i`ll know i`m getting through.

there`s this fairytale, see ..

and it lives inside my head.
burrowing like an earworm.
how unromantic, right?
but it`s better than this truth.
because we all know fairytales don`t exist.