8:42

Physically literally and impossibly concrete, its just another airplane landing in an airport. Its just another face with a little bit more smile in it.
I want to bottle the sunlight so you can drink it into the darkest corners of your shattered commodities. Let me sharpen the stars so they may shine on your thousand and one doubts. I know you are still here, as real as the wind that my hands run upon and the skin that whispers itself into my own. Gasps, moans, and contorted expressions, confused whispers as backs arch against the lack of control. And all you can see is just another unbroken blade, just another clean temple, just another thing that you will never be. Let me hold your hand, finger by finger and palm to palm and take you closer. Walk into a sacred testimony of prayers, but lean in and see the smudges of black on the fragrant earthen floor. Look closely at the glinting blade and see just another tear flowing down, like cheap pornography and liquor, and wafting nicotine. If you look around, there’s more cracks than any remainder of the intact. And there is more pure in every cigarette turned to ashes than you could ever think possible. Carry around a couple hundred oil paints and pour them over everything nameless, make an infinite graffiti of the walls that you were made to believe in. Hide your pains in every inconsequential detail for all to see

That your skin used to be nothing but canvas, which we could finger paint on and look for constellations across your neck. You could fill the edges with laughter and trace a sun down its middle. Say your name with widely open syllables and make it ring out loud, proudly yours. I remember. When your skin used to be nothing but a colorful canvas. Along came a disturbed and tormented man who called himself an artist and brought a knife down the rims of you. The sound of laughter gone metallic gone crystal gone broken was falling down to pieces with you, down into the bed, limp and unsurprising, like just another dead stare after the bullets have gone through.


Slip the burning acid into your mouth and trace irony unto it with your tongue. Swallow, swallow its good for you.