There is a river in me that misses its sea — Both such heretics; The ridiculous promise of breath, Beauty, madness, and fear
The flowers turn into wounded animals, then hope To turn back to seeds Forever unnamed Soon to sprout into sand
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There is a river in me that misses its sea — Both such heretics; The ridiculous promise of breath, Beauty, madness, and fear
The flowers turn into wounded animals, then hope To turn back to seeds Forever unnamed Soon to sprout into sand

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my most dramatic of memories
are turning terribly vague right in front of me;
my best days are 4 to 6 years ago,
but a new sun is rising, and it’s brighter
than any other star i’ve seen before.
after the rebirth, how do you live?
the freedom to breathe again
allows for the threat of suffocation
to take place; now i’m afraid of the daylight
‘cause the sunrise has been treating me well
– all pink and orange, just as vibrant
as i remember it from back then –,
and i’m mainly alive in the moments
where everything either falls apart
or starts unfolding.
did i mistake the main part for the prelude?
i only make fatal mistakes;
and i end up in one of two states:
eternally grateful, deeply frustrated.
everything i have now was once a fantasy,
but i raise the bar quickly, it’s spilling out of me
like water from a broken glass.
i’m praying for a life that fills my lungs with air,
measuring the amount of grey clouds on a pain scale
(moderate to severe);
my suffering will never make me famous,
so i might as well live a life
of happy mediocrity.
repetition, my curse, i’m learning my lessons;
but i’m not learning them fast enough.
A little spark that has eyes It has always been both fire and ash It would like to see To begin, to feel a cold sea On its fingertips
It is the secret in his wine And the river's poem Misses how the air felt Before the unannounced end
Unformed unease Chastised October Misguided heroine The body of my body — Has it yet to notice? Does it know? It is gentler, a little bit Just one of two sinners It knows
funnyhoney
Each forged morning Life kept dying; Emptiness perverts the beauty of chance
Real only to body and language, I was only ever gentle With one of them
Destroy to create — The first and the last reason; I hope for no more, I fear there will be no more
ink and bone
Worlds upon worlds And I still look too human Still, still — Between the god of resolve and the sun A lingering echo A dream of ink, both dissolving in water
The little light fell to its death; A spark caught upon my lips, and I so Hoped for breath! I thought that was why I had kept the bone dagger, But all that came out was, still, just blood

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hidden hunters
Spider on my ceiling I am watching your prey
This is already my second life Only my second, and so I am terrified of the dark; Cold sunrises teach me to see They peek from under their veils, and Come in silence, the way only Hiding in between is silent
The Moon has been jumping through the sky Her callous stolen light It whispers: 'you cannot trust your eyes'
Jagged skies Unravelling unease
Catch me, spider There are no stares That can pierce your web
mundane heresy
I dream of freedom I reach down my ribcage; The fur feels soft, but the animal — it just wants to die
Unborn Sun, our tears are precious Allow me some mundane heresy At the curtain call, let the empress cry; This is the purest language It will crawl out of thoughts and eternity; I no longer dream of floods, only of lips moving
the clouds
I wanted to fly so he broke my legs
He let me see clouds, made me believe They taste of something sacred, that they Will stay, speak truth for me That I was not born That I was just mist
Bones, and blood, and dreams of water I cannot lie myself out of a body; I was alone I wanted silence to have a meaning