This is How
This is how we kiss
She melts into me, clinging on to my shirt, my hair, my neck, like it’s the only thing she can hold onto to keep her from falling into an abyss of non-feeling. Her lips upon mine are like redemption, and with fervent desire she seals my rampant mind to her immediacy. It’s all I can do to wrap her in my moment, and cling with equally unequivocal fervency.This is how we love
She brought forth a monsoon to my desert dunes. Too much, too soon. But like all things brimming with energy and power, it’s easy to be swept torrent after torrent. Torrent after torrent. Torrent after torrent. All too consuming, all too draining. We love like devastation and passion, and it’s all too naturally chaotic to be anything less than love.This is how we fuck
As one. Where her limbs end and when mine begin, tis impossible to say. We are ever entangled in the other’s ecstasy and forever drowning in desire. It is a bruised fucktation and empassionated by sinspiration. We are animal and human all at once. We are man and woman all at once. We are lovers and beasts all at once. We are in constant dynamics. Climatic dynamics.This is how we fight
No holds barred. She hurls spear after spear through my heart and my words slam her against the wall of indignity. It is fierce and ferocious how we aim for the throat of our weaknesses. We are of marked dangerous intelligence when we can find so easily that one place to sink our teeth into and not let go off until someone somewhere is begging for mercy. The lovers’ tiff is a ruthless parody of bad jokes and ill-advised reactions, scandalous sarcasm and concentrated rage. It nearly always snowballs into mindless make-up sex.This is how we end
For weeks, we share the brutal silence. Seething under the cover of “I don’t fucking care”, we ignore each other as best as we can as some kind of punishment. And the silence continues because we are both stubborn fucks. We let our pride sever the bonds that bind us so closely and make every damn effort not to flinch or wince when we stab at ourselves repeatedly to break away from the weight of unspoken words. Finally, we blog about it and start off some kind of blog-war where we wash our dirty laundry in public and hang our dignity out to dry. Then, just like that, we are done. Done with words, done with incomplete silence, done with each other and neither of us is courteous enough to give the other some kind of closure. We are another train-wreck dilly-dallying on the road to perdition. To be sure, it is the road to perdition because only here do I find hell is more positive a place to be than the room without your scent, your laughter, your presence…you.
(via burningmuse)
endlessly burning moth: A Birthday Incident
At a well known cafe, by no means large, though not small either, but well known none the less, a man ordered a breakfast sandwich. Mushrooms and melted swiss, and eggs and bacon, that’s what he wanted. But it was noontime, and the barista informed him that they stopped making breakfast sandwiches at eleven. He happened to be very hungover, of course he would forget something as simple as this. He looked down at the counter, losing his eyes in the marble swirls. Then, he looked up and asked, “well, it’s my birthday, do you think you could make it happen?” The man was a regular, and well liked by the staff. The barista was more than happy to fill his request. The sandwich was made, he grabbed it. When he walked to find a seat, and a seat was readily available for him, he sat down, and took his first bite. How great life is, that a man, this man in particular, can eat a grease filled breakfast sandwich, with swiss, mushrooms, bacon, scrambled eggs, aioli spread, and it was even toasted, all of it on his birthday, just for him. Chewing something over and over, delicately turning over each morsel with the tongue, first this way, then the next, only regretting that he would not be as aware in the rest of his digestion of the utter majesty of this sandwich as he was in the chewing, which, however, is thankfully an important part of it.
Another man was sitting next to him, who seemed to look at him as if he were personally insulted. What could be wrong with this picture, the man thinks, is it wrong to be too delightful? But of course it is. The world is misery, and pain, one hopes only for the possibility of inflicting on others, one lives just for this alone. Being happy with yourself is a terrible thing, because you would think about yourself, and place yourself on the same level as a delicious breakfast sandwich, which everyone likes, is disliked by no one— but you should be thinking more of others, always thinking of others, and in this way thinking only of yourself, because the world is mainly yourself.
Yes, seeing someone happy with themselves is witnessing a crime that, unfortunately, cannot be strictly prohibited, because society strives for happiness, which is not the same thing as being happy, really just another name for misery. Humanity is complicated, there are niceties, technicalities that must be strictly observed. Luckily however, if being happy cannot be prohibited due to technicalities, it can be thwarted in practice by these same technicalities.
The disgusted man asks the birthday boy, “how do you have that sandwich?” To which the birthday boy says “what?” The disgusted man just stares at him. “I tried to order one of those, they wouldn’t let me have one, why do you get to have one?” “Chill out,” the birthday boy says, “I asked them, it’s just my birthday.” “That’s all?” the disgusted man says, and, getting up, walks off towards the counter. The birthday boy sees him gesturing very rudely to the barista, and then going to the back door, where the manager sits. He knocks. The manager opens the door, where he complains that the birthday boy was given preferential treatment, and that he is a regular patron of the cafe and deserves good treatment, at least as much as everyone else, and if it were better it should be only for him that it be better, and they had made the wrong decision. The manager laughs in his face and sends him walking out the door, tells him never to come back, even calling him ‘an uptight asshole.’ Just kidding.
The manager looks pained, as if he were expressing sorrow for all of the pain and misery in the world, as if he were suffering just like Jesus Christ on the cross, and a manager can be even more holy than Jesus Christ, just look closely, and the manager apologizes profusely, offers the disgusted man three free coffee cards, offers him a breakfast sandwich, and he takes the free coffee cards out of principle, but refuses the breakfast sandwich on that same principle, then walking out, once outside throwing the free coffee cards in the trash.
The manager turns from the suffering son to God in the Old Testament, the fire red, angry father, walking over to the Barista, firing her on the spot, putting all of the blame on her, all of the blame is on her, this worthless, terrible person. She is the reason that the world has starving people, dying people, she is the reason for the deficit, she is the reason her college degree is worthless, she is the reason for the worldwide economic depression, her, her alone, her selfishness, her narcissism, her indiscretion, and she should have never been born. She runs out of the coffee shop crying, and who wouldn’t cry after a barrage like that. The birthday boy just stares at it all, really hungover.
(via burningmuse)
Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, per, from and prudent. The sea ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty saved for the smokeplume of the mailboat, vague on the bright skyline, and a sail tacking by the muglins
(via caitlin-in-wonderland)
how to unlove me
History grew more when certain people discovered bones and pieces of furniture curled up in the certain corners of the world. Some were discovered underneath the ground or sand, whole, but a little cracked. Others were too much in pieces that it couldn’t be figured out at all.
To unlove me, you must love history. You must be interested on people’s past and be patient enough to dig through all the sand and be dirty, just to find out the persons I used to be. You cannot unlove me when you don’t know the truth, when you don’t know anything. So start digging and you will realize how you don’t love me anymore.
I am a mausoleum, filled with relics of mood swings, depression, sadness and regret. You couldn’t tell which is which. After all, bones are bones. No matter how many cracks they have, they’ll be bones and teeth and skull to your eyes. The words written about me are how I switched my ruined things with my cousin’s perfect ones. How I cruelly smashed my mama’s heart to pieces. All for being selfish; all for my sake.
I am a museum, where my clothes are hanged up in row and my handwriting is plastered all over the walls. My scars are taped on a special paper where they would not age. My wounds on paintings by artists you don’t know. They will talk about how I spoke too ill to my father, how I always chose my friends. The words on board for everyone to read will say that I fell in love with the wrong persons. That I was wrapped in lust and love, that I couldn’t recognize which was what I was feeling.
For a lover of history, you may even despise me and wonder how I have these buildings just for me. You would say that it would be a waste of money and time, creating things for me. The words on those boards and descriptions have sort of told you the truth, and you have gained knowledge about me. You may hate me. You may say that I have been completely honest with my life. But I cannot command you to unlove me. You be the judge if they did tell the truth. I have lived my life, and I have not loved myself.
You may or may not unlove me. Either way, I’m okay.
(via burningmuse)
She devoured stories with rapacious greed, ranks of black marks on white, sorting themselves into mountains and trees, stars, moons and suns, dragons, dwarfs, and forests containing wolves, foxes and the dark. She told her own tales as she walked through the fields, tales of wild riders and deep meres, of kindly creatures and evil hags.
(via okayophelia)
Bloody Sunday
After the stroke of midnight, I made my pilgrimage to your Sunday mass hoping to find enlightenment in the cathedral of your bed. Detrimental as it may be, you have always been my Adonis. Glassy eyed and weak pulsed. Amazing you could even see me through such constricted pupils, but I’ve come to know you paired with poppies. Somewhere along the way your addiction also became my home. We spent the early hours of this morning searching for solitude in the muffled sounds of each other’s taction. We made love the way cavemen attempt firestarting with rain soaked flint; desperately and vainly. Sparking limbs rolling into and out from the other with no hope of providing any warmth- only the comfort of rapport and a sense of tradition. Reverting back to our old ways of intimate distance. And that was it. Nothing more than carnal carnage left in place of a once promised love. Perhaps we were only ever meant for Sundays. Some things are intended for moderation, so I suppose we were naive to ever strive for piety. I was never destined for bare feet and an engorged belly; it is simply not in our stars to be constants. Like Persephone, I am bound to have you strictly in thirds. Our pitfall being that we are ever too greedy for the feel of familiarity, always wanting to take the road best known. Your father kissed me once on each cheek this morning as I stumbled down the stairs mascara smeared and stale whiskey breathed. His eyes were pained at my fall from grace, as if seeing me in the light of morning afters was too bright to bear. He told me he missed me at your family dinners, but for once I could not agree.
(via burningmuse)
