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Literature Text
The slice of my mouth has been rent ragged as a torn banner of surrender,
pursed like two tectonic plates rutting together to birth earthquakes
the acrid, addictive tang of salt, sweat, a coppery rust
pursed like two tectonic plates rutting together to birth earthquakes
the acrid, addictive tang of salt, sweat, a coppery rust
that speaks secrets
apple-seed bitter and hissing like snakes
against the corners of my smile (was it a smile, today?),
A littany of hemoglobin rasps that fill in the cracks of my crumbling lips like
and turns my tongue the shade of cherries
you only find in the saturation filters for nostalgic romantic films.
I trace idle patterns across the twin crescent moons of my dentition, mapping half-remembered fever dreams of Mozart and Wagner out with bendy straws and the ends of fork tines,
tasting blandness from bright plastics, a ghost of blood in the metal of old silverware.
My skin is pockmarked with a history of craters that cry jealousy of the moon's iv'ry face.
Little scabs and bruises form, blistering through the thin earth of epidermis to form a wild garden of
blues
and reds
and sometimes-greens,
sometimes-yellows.
Sometimes I wonder, when a new blister breaks, or a scab peels away,
A littany of hemoglobin rasps that fill in the cracks of my crumbling lips like
dirty water.
Licking away at the staining tastes of the sea, of the dark and quiet before storms,and turns my tongue the shade of cherries
you only find in the saturation filters for nostalgic romantic films.
I trace idle patterns across the twin crescent moons of my dentition, mapping half-remembered fever dreams of Mozart and Wagner out with bendy straws and the ends of fork tines,
tasting blandness from bright plastics, a ghost of blood in the metal of old silverware.
My skin is pockmarked with a history of craters that cry jealousy of the moon's iv'ry face.
Little scabs and bruises form, blistering through the thin earth of epidermis to form a wild garden of
blues
and reds
and sometimes-greens,
sometimes-yellows.
Sometimes I wonder, when a new blister breaks, or a scab peels away,
If red is supposed to look that pretty,
or why the sting isn't bothering me, the ache more comfort than not.
Thoughts are funny that way, sometimes sculpting, sometimes scarring,
always buried deep with the anticipation of excavation.
Thoughts are funny that way, sometimes sculpting, sometimes scarring,
always buried deep with the anticipation of excavation.
There are days when I wonder if I can etch a space in the universe precisely me-shaped,
And if I could hide in it until my head stops being so stuffed full of noise and ideas and thoughts
that it feels like an overripe pomegranate,
rotting in the sun of childishly laughing, light-footed time and an exhaustive reality.
At night, I lie awake, stubborn eyes chasing moonbeams across the ceiling, and dream of a future where thinking won't drown me, eat me, spit me out, but kiss me kindly, the way you think tenderness is supposed to be in stories.
And if I could hide in it until my head stops being so stuffed full of noise and ideas and thoughts
that it feels like an overripe pomegranate,
rotting in the sun of childishly laughing, light-footed time and an exhaustive reality.
At night, I lie awake, stubborn eyes chasing moonbeams across the ceiling, and dream of a future where thinking won't drown me, eat me, spit me out, but kiss me kindly, the way you think tenderness is supposed to be in stories.
NOTE: The writing today was kind of....dark. Creepy, and weird, and dark. I was in a mood. No, I DON'T ever actively try to mess myself up, but I'm a clumsy ditz who's overthinking at least 10 different things most of the time, and sometimes the occasional bruise or scrape from something as simple as bumping too hard into the side of a table can actually be oddly gratifying, as if the world gets a little sharper when your brain is sending out a bunch of signals to the rest of you to fix the new problem. It's almost like a really dumb, probably not that healthy reality check, but it works for me.
I've been feeling....kind of out of it again. Sorry. I've mentioned it in previous journal entries and art, but sometimes I just feel like this, and the world just feels claustrophobic rather than helpful. I get cagey and feel like my skin is too tight, that it's too loud everywhere, that I just want to sit somewhere quiet and dark and block out everything for a while, and let myself blank out until I don't feel like my head's going to crack open like an egg for breakfast scrambles.
Of course, since reality doesn't work that way and if I did that anywhere near the amount of times I actually felt like I wanted and/or needed to, I'd be the least productive person in this whole universe, I settle for writing, and journal rants, and fidgeting a whole lot. Oh well, still better than giving in to the urge to just flip off the entirety of Life's problems and living on my parent's couch.
I've been feeling....kind of out of it again. Sorry. I've mentioned it in previous journal entries and art, but sometimes I just feel like this, and the world just feels claustrophobic rather than helpful. I get cagey and feel like my skin is too tight, that it's too loud everywhere, that I just want to sit somewhere quiet and dark and block out everything for a while, and let myself blank out until I don't feel like my head's going to crack open like an egg for breakfast scrambles.
Of course, since reality doesn't work that way and if I did that anywhere near the amount of times I actually felt like I wanted and/or needed to, I'd be the least productive person in this whole universe, I settle for writing, and journal rants, and fidgeting a whole lot. Oh well, still better than giving in to the urge to just flip off the entirety of Life's problems and living on my parent's couch.
© 2016 - 2024 MomotsukiNezumi
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