pull my jaw open

Not trying to be respectable. Not trying to be worthy of your touch, of your words, or your clearly idolized perceptions. Swings, and condoms, and never ending rocks speaking conversation bleeding tears as I pound down on the floor bruise my hips with the sway sway swaying of those rocks on my bag. I can’t drink. I can’t drink because the water, the liquid, the broken down sugary green tea condenses my lack of air into poison to be swallowed. And makes me fine. Makes me be ok. Makes me temporarily and eternally, perfectly fake ok. So I wont drink. And ill bite down on the thirst and make my tongue bleed, make my tongue throb as I bite down choke down words and sounds that capture screams and wont let them out of a gilded cage of coherence. Im tired of making sense. Im tired of trying to play the rules of everyone else’s name. Scratched breasts, broken dignity in midnight playgrounds, and I don’t care. I care for every thought you think and every scoff you decided not to scoff out, but I don’t care. I don’t want my actions to be molded and directed, and be puppets on a crappy wage. I push in my own skin my flesh my everything that makes me human full desiring raging woman. To make sure its there. Im here. To make sure my skin is somewhat mine. Still. To make sure that there are whispers in the pledges of muscle and glitter in the middle of the smallness in me. That I know there are still things to be said, things to be torn out of pieces of skin and burnt out of scars, and the same five images are taking turns to grind themselves in my head. Repeating themselves over and over like such a perverted mantra that loses meaning with each repetition. Just another cliché worn down by thoughts by thinking, its me digging my own grave and burying the hole in pieces of me. Lips, sugar coated gazes full of meaning of paint in a lost forgiven city. Forgiven by me, understood in perfect silence while I was lost in the streets and walking among strangers. Feeling the most imperfect trust I ever felt, honestly mine, more than I could ever trust as a choice. That I feel this as watered down, watered down concentrated trinkets getting stuck in the small cracks of me. To have a bedtime, to fist these revelations down into what Freud called all powerful. Subconscious, unconscious, despicable me. But then I remember lips, blurry memory of an underestimated conversation of all things purposeless asking: Did someone ever have the fucking great idea of analizing Freud? And then picturing that marble statue of a man, whose brain is under insurance and saved in its own casket as the 8th or 9th – or what number are we in already? – wonder of the world. Just like you can picture Hitler screaming his secrets out in a room while his hands were covered in blood I mean paint I mean tears or the mud which he used to bury himself loose of everyone who could ever have seen through. And I care. I promise. To hold my caring like strings that stick to my fibers of tissue of life and melt into my physiology. Repeating to you a thousand times that life doesn’t rhyme because I can feel the burning of benign acid eating away at any attempt of mythology. Of superstitions that prove themselves true just to fuck with your mind. With mine. I mean. I want the sky to become a perfect high definition screen and watch porn of the gods while I eat away my sins, and let the lightning be nothing but pleasure, as I beg the full moon to touch me, to awaken the raging want in me and make me come. Make me feel myself inside. Make me see that deities can fuck and love and breathe and cry and curl themselves in a pathetic fetal position and call themselves human. Also. Always. So they can mean something. To mean something. They must cry the sorrows of entire generations of genocides. Generations of the same fucking family where the word mother or sister or brother was never said. The day I see a god part his lips, and crack his eyelids open to the suffering of millions of refugee camps victimized by media, by cameras and pretty blonde ladies yapping at a microphone, spitting ignorance while the lives and the deaths of broken soul after amputated arm after orphaned 2 year old running loose looking for his mother or at least his rag doll covered in blood to hold close and call his own in a semi disturbing whisper until the end must come. The day I see a god get a boner to the picture of gaia, never ending erotic mother earth, and call her to bed for a booty call to fuck and create an entirely new universe. The day a god breaks his windows and jumps out of the sky to dive into the unbreakable surface of an ocean that is not his, in a suicidal attempt to be noticed, selfishly and foolishly consumed by guilt. For creating such a world full of life that became a virus that became a self inflicted instinct to pour itself into chaos just to keep itself alive. It’s such a high. It’s such a motherfucking high to shoot image after scream after broken wrist into paper, into digital paper and imitations of ink. That I know that one after the other are all worthy of being said. Just like I tell broken innocence and violated woman after girl after boy that you are still worthy. That I can still see your pupils pulsating with earth. To sow and reap a thousand photographs of things youll see. That beneath the intelligence in your eyes, with the silence that I curse and try to rip apart by stretching your mouth way too open to peek inside, you can still feel. The swelling in your stomach, the bloody capillaries around the cornea of just another human being with a sense, that those are the fight and the scream and the truth that tell you that you are not his. Or hers. Or theirs. That your nakedness and your pain, the anger and the choices. Yours. To meet.