possibly a trout

Agony screams loudest in solitude. The skeleton won’t help you. Blood surely doesn’t taste sweet, and you’ll resent those scars someday. Sloppy words lace themselves into the knives you leave nestled between ribs and vertebrae. The more you starve, the more mesmerizing it becomes. Metal, bone, metal, bone. Of course you know. The peace of fixation. A slow heartbeat. Forgotten love. A slow bleed. Then you’ll be able to sleep.

within one leveled breath, i may know you then cease to exist. how easy it is to know the intimacies of abandon and self restraint. she is indeed my most nostalgic lover. the promise of her emptiness, the gift of her consumption. these things embrace me in desperation. i swallow the burn readily, breathless and starving, knowing this is the taste of gratitude.

how many ways are there to profess adoration? I sit with grounded patience. it’s a comforting silence where in this garden, I wait for the lilies to bloom. staring straight into this picture of what could be. that’s just the issue, isn’t it... the loudness of this discipline, hoping to grow your favorite flower. what else is there aside these midnight confessions and sugared tears separated through a phone line. where a voice makes forever feel like a second. maybe honey isn’t your favorite flavor, yet i still carry it with me. and maybe im no good at hiding it, yet you’re still here. such a thing will always transcend any distance. that warm sparkling flutter. the tingling burning of not knowing… how much time do I spend here? how long does it take for a flower to grow? how many hours do I have before it wilts? i wonder if you can drape the same lines of elegance between hidden meaning, or if my patience has only begun to beget the heat.