one more ugly, stillborn cry

heel to toe between the stars

I'll forget gravity, kiss it goodbye

and I'll feel its gentle hands

slowly let go

one and the same with the vacuum

mirroring the crushed stars i was made of

i wanted that. i dreamed and wanted.

i wanted. i wanted.

i want.

I'm tired of wanting.

I'll never be a star, and gravity

still grounds me, its hands

like shackles like ball and chain.

i don't expect, nor do i want its

tenderness.

I'll never be a star,

and I'll forget what i ever wanted.

i won't wish my breathing to be tides,

powerful and unrelenting in its wake.

I'll remember each as it is,

as meaningless as a grain of salt

in the ocean.

i want. i want. i want to forget.

....

one of the things that frustrates me the most about my condition right now is remembering how I used to be. I can't get that version of me back. I lost myself.

there's something comforting about remembering my insignificance. I of course had trouble thinking about how useless and how utterly slow my life has been. I feel like I've failed, at 21. but I'm trying to make peace with the fact that I'm not special, and just mediocre in every sense of way.

but it hurts to remember that I used to be different. I used to want to be something, used to have hope of being something, used to believe I could be something. I don't want any of that now. it feels too far fetched when I'm struggling with doing the very basic things to live.

things not fitting into place

i am an artist, after all, and I see bodies

as art

as mediums

as ways to express

colors

movements

the subtlest of actions

(shivers and trembles

belts fastened and buttons closed

done and undone again)

my body (her body, his body)

thought about being taken

so i listened and i took

and i wondered about taking

her body, his body

but my body is caged in mirrors

seen through a fogged gaze

looked through my notes. this is for an original story i planned to develop, it's called no stars in the city.

(I shouldn't care this much.)

You are different now. You look different. Something about growing, and then aging. Something about what you do now. I remember the work of your hands, still. Your voice sounds hastily different, but it's your voice. I recognize it all the same. You don't lose yourself, I did.

And I...

I have been fine. I have been... me.

(Ever self-indulgent, me. I continue to blur the edges of myself. Compartmentalizing sounds good enough until I find myself running out of choice. I let it all wash over me. There is no way in hell I am telling you all this.)

(Don't look at me. Not like that. I changed. You changed. Isn't that fair?)

Muscle memories. Steps falling into place like they have been for a thousand days. You're living years at a time. You're seeing too far ahead.

(I couldn't possibly catch up.)

Glad to see that you're well. (It's better off this way.)

I hope we'll get along fine. (Let's put all of this behind, scrub the slate blank.)

Odd, formalities coming from you. Even odder, my mouth just agrees with it. The slew of words taste like nothing, it means nothing. There is nothing anymore. You move in a precise way. Decisive. Always scheming. Compartmentalizing works great for you. It all has been impersonal. I'm merely mimicking.

There is nothing anymore.

(I have to believe this, too. Since you're trying to. It's always been like this, you take the lead and I'll take the cue. So don't look at me like that. This is what you want.)

(Who cares what I want?)

this acidic point of view. heart, soul, mouth tainted with cynicism. it sure is taking its time, making nests out of twigs and thorns within me. laying envy and raising it and calling it home.

heart, soul, mouth stained with jealousy. ugly things. red eyed, words slurring. they're making a home out of me.

a vomit of ugly things strung up by the dancing of my tongue

and I bit down, but sometimes, it's too late

I bit down just enough, never to draw blood

I don't know about the rest, do they bleed because of me?

and sometimes, I wonder why

why I couldn't stop

why I said those things

why I even think about them

like a goddamn coward hiding in some flimsy shell they call judgement

sharp tongue, wretched words

the slight slope of mouth, mocking, dismissing, demeaning

and one time, I talked nothing but good to my mother, of this silly thing I cherish

and then she spoke and i was looking at my reflection on a muddy water

those ugly things, the same dance of her tongue

well, I know now that they bleed, I do too

and I thought, oh mother,