what lies beneath skin if not plexiglass

"use me, like a pen uses ink. 
write something beautiful, original, interminable. 
write until your form spills onto the page 'til there is no ink left. 
write about chains and whips, 
tragedy and painfully glorious moments. 
flesh on flesh 
mouth on mouth 
love on sin."


I need to believe it's true
that even my demons are open grounds
for aching art.

I'm writing to rehabilitate this overwhelming desire
to liberate the screaming eternally bound
inside the warped remnants
of my quivering conscience.

Im letting a heavy longing
consume the torment bed into my heart,
and i beg truth to surface as a mercy
for my nebulous soul.

The sun eclipses;
atramentous illusion of a fairytale escape-
forgotten in my presence.

My pulse wheezes.
Memory flickers like a drained projector
screening independent images
that poise in cream,
and all of the collected colors of my purest nihilism.

I want to moan.
I need to let my lungs stutter
and my eyes to roll back in surrender.
Im struggling for fearful release
as if my organs will buckle at any second,
and i just can't stop this romantic virus
that's become my most trusted form of self-immoculation
from ascending into a solitary plane of existence.

One created of fantasy and loneliness
and jargon slips of who
i (eye?)
courtney
divided herself into over the years
in temporary contentment
embraced from borrowed homes.

Stay inside.
Someone speaks to me from a place
buried deeply in the scattered pieces of myself
that were given away
without my permission.
Stay inside.

I am safe here
where the gravity bends to my will
and the sky is a constant contrast
of purple clouds torn asunder
by liquid electricity.

Where only flowers from my fondest tears
grow in abandon like wild acts
of adolescence love.

A place to hide.
A place to wait.
I begin to grow cold.
Slow motion perception.
Quiet breaths.

Detachment billows around my grip of living poetry.
A great, thick water of red floods all thought.
Doubt.
Anxiety and paranoia.
Everything's white.
Nothing is real.
Everything is back to reality.

In either world, i
am
l
o
n
e.

I feel the magic retracting
back from the passion i intricately extracted it from.
A clean mend;
scalpel made- yet impatient.

Receding.
Dissolving.

Exposing me again
in the harsh light of a late morning.
Craving something i don't understand
outside of my constraint