Dead spots

"I am angry that I starved my brain
and that I sat shivering in my bed at night
instead of dancing
or reading poetry
or eating ice cream
or kissing a boy
or maybe a girl
with gentle lips and strong hands"



..We're world changers and we're settling. Its killing us alive. Its time to break these stupid fucking chains..



i am angry to learn about the dead spots
in my brain
how i all but willed them
into living monsters
that keep me up
at all hours of the night
and take away
my creative cognitive ability
to express
what's really going on
in my head
well after they've begun
their whispers
of dread and sorrow
of death and oblivion
i hear them
like deliberate strokes
fluttering atop piano keys
when i close my eyes-
powerful and swift
decisive and soul crushing
when the world streaks away
and melts into the contours
of every reason
i'm afraid of the dark

i hold my breathe
and count to eight
grip my pale arms a little tighter
around my fat fucking waist
curse my father
and then forgive him
in rapid succession

then it's all suddenly so clear
there's a spark in my pulse
a passion in my chaos
and a desire spilling out
from behind my eyelids
like punctured acrylic bottles
twining down
 down
o
w
n
dousing the linoleum

thrashing
and shrieking
and ripping at the seams
of this fleshy world
forcibly pulsating around it
white out
disappear
dissociate to somewhere more real

and i am free
everything is silent
yellow
blue
green
fuchsia
sienna
indigo tinted sapphire clarity

i can paint this floor
anyway i want to

i can texture dreams
into the cracks
and wipe away the bile
cemented at the bottom of the toilet
with rainbow streaks
leaking from my bloody finger nails
like strips of magic
i can create wild fires out of walls
and cresent moons etched
between the tiles
that write a story
that can only be read
at half past the witching hour
write in verses
that speak of a kinder truth
as to why wolfsbane
bloomed from her lips
until she choked on their beauty
i can-

shit
my eyes open
and it ends
just abruptly as it begin

i can feel it
on the front left side
of my frontal cortex
numb
empty nothingness
blank darkness
encompassing all thought

sinking deep
into an onyx water
swallowing away the starlight
with my own oxygen bubbles

the art is lost
before it takes true form

our-ey

courtney

i am angry to hear my name
i am angry it fills me
with such foreign understanding
in a language i can't decipher

i am surrounded by shadows
pressing their claws
into my breast
and extracting
the best fragments of me
like dirty ribbons
to be left shredded in discard
on the ground
i am broken
and i am left haunted
by my weakness