(no subject)
i desperately wish to be suicidal.
I was starting to believe more in streetlights for their immediate remedy to the dark desperation of my melting consciousness, not like the slow shimmer of an inconsistent star whose light that I saw traveled light years before I could see its ancient, lethargic stare. Pebbles and sparks and cigarette confetti fell paralyzed to the ground excretion trying to pass itself off as weeds. The optimism of missed weekdays and the absence of rain punctured our a.m.’s and p.m.’s when we needed to just fall away from parents and numbers and religion and risk jail, pregnancy, and bruises. In those moments you could find our anti-apathy, our need for cosmic visions and shaved dry burning down our throats.
Just another night illuminated against the graffiti filmed bricks, boyish silhouettes and flames contained in rusting garbage bins. Three bottles empty, tempting open mouthed cans and the hungry incoherence churning slowly in my temples sinking down to my nose. Nicotine mummies and a few fresh stars. My gaze violently thrown to the sky, begging for some consequence, my eyes shut like a folding galaxy, conceding to theories.
I burned myself with the cigarette, orange glowing extraterrestrially, its soul sizzling off my skin into orbits and every planet swiveled misaligned. I steadily pushed down hard and waited for the stinging but it never came it just sunk through, nothing would let me feel; I really didn’t care whether it was a streetlight or star to cry on, I just wanted to scream, extinguish the lackluster lull of my sputtering flickering life-light, not stumble through this predestined malignancy without a galactic rapture to rupture the doubling uncertainty I have of everything. And all I have left to show for myself is a heart-shaped scar at the site of the cigarette soul sacrifice; I’m dying more every second.
I was starting to believe more in streetlights for their immediate remedy to the dark desperation of my melting consciousness, not like the slow shimmer of an inconsistent star whose light that I saw traveled light years before I could see its ancient, lethargic stare. Pebbles and sparks and cigarette confetti fell paralyzed to the ground excretion trying to pass itself off as weeds. The optimism of missed weekdays and the absence of rain punctured our a.m.’s and p.m.’s when we needed to just fall away from parents and numbers and religion and risk jail, pregnancy, and bruises. In those moments you could find our anti-apathy, our need for cosmic visions and shaved dry burning down our throats.
Just another night illuminated against the graffiti filmed bricks, boyish silhouettes and flames contained in rusting garbage bins. Three bottles empty, tempting open mouthed cans and the hungry incoherence churning slowly in my temples sinking down to my nose. Nicotine mummies and a few fresh stars. My gaze violently thrown to the sky, begging for some consequence, my eyes shut like a folding galaxy, conceding to theories.
I burned myself with the cigarette, orange glowing extraterrestrially, its soul sizzling off my skin into orbits and every planet swiveled misaligned. I steadily pushed down hard and waited for the stinging but it never came it just sunk through, nothing would let me feel; I really didn’t care whether it was a streetlight or star to cry on, I just wanted to scream, extinguish the lackluster lull of my sputtering flickering life-light, not stumble through this predestined malignancy without a galactic rapture to rupture the doubling uncertainty I have of everything. And all I have left to show for myself is a heart-shaped scar at the site of the cigarette soul sacrifice; I’m dying more every second.