shebelievesnotfully

your growth, self, body is dead stunted so stop. please. the scraps of what you've left of yourself lend sad soulness to us, educated.

This is eroticism at a distance, described in a way in which words are not applicable, yet a necessity. You are a show; a way to be judged and validated. This is the absolution of your existence.                                                   Now for the You, You part: Delete words. Move. Delete information and education. Knowledge, from now on, shall be sought only through Touch. The corners and bulbous of my body are now your science lesson. My eyes are the primitive wisdom which I carry, no text book. You will learn without dictation and the questions that ordinarily follow. This will be you and I, together from a distance.

you drop me off           at the house on the couch,                                                 leave. i coil up like an albino snake,           selecting negligence of sun,                                                 love.                                                                              in the hours of nighttime disillusionment frustration, my skin becomes                             transparent so see the brown suede under behind around my boneless                                   body. i consider if i don't mind being alone

Are you alright on your                                    own? Did you know that this is what death will be for you? Left with your black of regret and guilt and holed up; no pleasant interruptions... Those two boys you twisted and fucked, fending for you and fucking them up.  Me me me.  They'll come back. Can you leave your house without your two-tones bronze or your heeled deception of pretense? Do you know what beauty is? Are you aware of yourself? Each minute movement of self captivates mind, manipulates words, monopolizes thought.  Did you know your concious can't escape conciousness no matter the drug eyeliner. Do you m

I'll continue to roam in my constant state of solemnity and my everyday impediments will go on seeming, being insurmountable and I'm not really sure if I'm crazy or typical. It's the fucking flourescents. I swear they make the world surreal and maybe you've never seen me smile. Maybe there's a reason for it and I'm leaning towards typical. I wonder if cavemen ever slept in. Whichever whatways were supposed to be, did they be just because they were supposed to? I wonder if the program made the cavemen awake at sunrise consistantly. Nights of catastrophic consonants and vocabulary violence make my world worth being in. It's what I have to look

It's not happening to you, I thought. It's happening to your flesh... But I knew she'd never understand. That got me through my toughest times, though. It's an out of body experience. Life, I mean. Looking over yourself and your    interactive over-acted reactions to relationships. We're just actors in the meantime, anyway. It isn't like me, I thought. But it's just like you To never get it. To aggress; project progress but secretly neglect it. To obsess and distress. To avoid repression of feelings that nobody wants to hear about; that nobody else can speak about or turn around. To rub those feelings in everybody's face; To say

speak ; seriousness-less-ly side-step the script to say selfishly only what I feel     . they bark to experience What only can be told through Words, obeying stealers who Warrant (-?) life , and I want to emote ease-fully or to not emote at all. descriptions are too long -anyway, wont adjectives won't adduce illogical beingness and I want to speak with reason or to not speak at all.

I'll continue to roam in my constant state of solemnity and my everyday impediments will go on seeming, being insurmountable and I'm not really sure if I'm crazy or typical. It's the fucking flourescents. I swear they make the world surreal and maybe you've never seen me smile. Maybe there's a reason for it and I'm leaning towards typical. I ask, Are you happy? She says, Yes, but I've been stressed. She asks, Are you? I say, today. She says, Good answer. I agree.

I'll continue to roam in my constant state of solemnity and my everyday impediments will go on seeming, being insurmountable and I'm not really sure if I'm crazy or typical. It's the fucking flourescents. I swear they make the world surreal and maybe you've never seen me smile. Maybe there's a reason for it and I'm leaning towards typical.

Sun touching thighs, knees- pillow that lay over them- arms and fingers over pillow- cigarette between fingers; Sun casting shadows indifferent to the idea they'd been expected to reciprocate the shapes of my forearms and fingernails in uniform norm ice gray. I notice trillions of crab legs washed up shore and wonder: What makes crabs so susceptible to getting beached? What makes somebody so susceptible to getting hurt?