dosenherz.

nowadays the body hurts worse than the heart and i tend to forget / the memory of a bruise in my throat keeps rising until the sky breaks above the atlantic sea and suddenly i find myself crawling hundreds of miles below in the quiet of fish too blind to care that there's no light left around here.

this body holds one too many griefs (of somewhen loved ones, another lake drying out in the middle of the Arctic, shrapnels stuck to a mouth long gone slack; the hands and knives plunged in my own) to make room for the fleeting self-inflicted sadnesses you (a stranger as another thing met on the road) brought upon yourself by trying to associate a singular me with stories carved into the softest parts of the belly instead of the patched-up version of every paper-doll i cut out for your viewing pleasure.

my disdain arms itself with the knives

went on a dancing spree with a. last night; the pastel-coloured haze of a dream better than any strobo light stroking our mouths / it's impossible to stumble if you're not aware of having to move on two feet in this life, she says; they're never needed when we're floating outside of time anyway or maybe i don't remember it right //

i have no memories of the day after (except for the sugar-thick sound of something dripping - down, i guess: a bag of blood swaying above my body;) nothing but the lack of pain fading slowly until someone asks me whether i want to try and stand up again instead of my name and i guess they're not playing the long game.

i lost a hold of all my messes; distraught by the idea of having to mend myself again i scatter my thoughts all over the kitchen table; g. finds sticky notes in his hair in the mornings and leaves me pieces of his silence which i cannot bear to gather closer in case the body remains unable to contain itself;

a secret re-told through a.'s last unwritten poem: maybe they confuse small smiles with proper small-talk because they weren't raised to be nice to every other stranger that wants to touch the air bristling above their skin? swallow!, my mother said, this has no place right now right here and while the cuts have long gone dry, my ribcage is rattled by ghosts pressing their tiny hands against walls that keep closing in and today the breathing is getting impossible and so is living only partly left alive.

are flat tires considered to be roadkill?