sore must be the storm

Help me down? You don’t dare. I might rub off on you, like soot or gossip. Birds of a feather burn together, though as a rule ravens are singular

I will place my hand in that flame and feel nothing. I will ask nobody’s forgiveness again.

If ever you wanted to know how I heal, drink the dusk. Burn a ritual on your tongue. Bleed into a lover.

It’s not that he consumes me but that I consume myself, much like the ouroboros. I prepare for future suffering. I suffer today. I suffer so that the future suffering will feel like an old shoe. I’m a fish in a net, still living.

It’s important / for me to say I look for her still because someone has to. Someone / has to imagine her there

Through the slit of our open window, the wind comes in and flows around us, nothingness in motion, like time. The power of what is not there.

Franz Sedlacek (Austrian, 1891-1945)