noetic texture

What if I told you that I have scabs on my eyelids, and a mental cigarette on hiatus for when I accept my infection? I'm waiting for my whimpers to creep into you like lightning. I'm stretching my mouth like the cuts on the backs of your fingers. If I could, I'd describe to you that relapse is a second wind, and it aptly makes reality that much more like the stars. The ones I wish I could flood with color in a downwards torrent and watch peel away the skin of a pale gods bones. I know the evil in a sadness, and I know the dust that often rises in claustrophobia.


I know black walls when I see them.


I'm thinking about doleful fragments of light and which disillusioned frequency I might belong to. I wish I could tell you about the suicide in my smile. How it loves deeper than your breath, bruised in silence; beaten into hesitation. I'm drifting away like the gentle spirals gasping in a smoke trail. There's a lie in my kindness. A woman that's desperate for your tongue to dip into each earthquake that's splitting my shoulder blades calamitously. I should say that I thirst for something I've never tasted, and I should say that I drink from a gaping wound.


I should warn you that I might not touch you properly.