／|、
(o* o 7
︱ ︶ヽ
     U U c )~~

I prefer to look through the cracks of the
world to find the things that have fallen through. The weird and the odd that can not sit comfortably on top,

the things that leave you pleasantly unsatisfied. Perhaps its because that’s where I found myself

diner menu
/cute-shit
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/bday-list
/work-stuff
/random-junk
/travel-list
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old tv poem video
*/\_/\
>^ ^<
**/ \
(___)__/

These are the words that haunt my soul
the ones that come and go at 4am
the ones that entered that house
on 3rd street and burned
it from the basement out
it stayed standing but never felt the same

No matter how many times
I return it always feels
as if it's leaning too far to the left
The moss has already started
to take back what it is owed
and I wonder

Will these words do the same
to me
I've watched them do it
a hundered, no a thousand
times before
these words creep in
and they burn
in the stomach and the chest and the mind
until all thats left is a moss covered
skeleton that leans in such a queer way
that it never feels the same

the smoke sprouts like a dull
grey flower from my fingertips

Melt the fillings
straight from my head
so that I may tast something
other than the tang of my blood

Turn them into fragile bullets
and load them one by one
preciously into the gun that always seems
to be tucked into my back pocket
or at the front of my nightstand
or locked inside a box labled
please don't think about me
which is thought about more
than the label would lead one to believe

One day I'll take that gun
and spinning the chamber
point it at the things that eat
my memories before they're even made
I'll watch the blood spill into the dirt
and for once taste something
other than metal on my tongue

How much can one change
before it's considered murder?

Before I became a convict in my own skin
running until the car and my lungs
could take me no further
and I knew the only way all this ends
is in a serene shoot out
because I tasted something sweeter
than any sin I’ve ever committed
Before I found myself in a field
digging a hole six feet deep
in the middle of the night
and lowering a mirror down into it
I’ll perform the last rites
although it won’t feel right
it never does when the person above is still
in someway the same as the one below

Do not tell me this was an accident
that it was self defense
do not give me your mercy…your pity
by definition murder must be premeditated
and I have thought of this since the day
I looked at my reflection and thought it was someone else
I have stalked myself night after night
through the dark places in my mind
grinding blade on bone until
it is just a memory, a scar carved into the flesh