fuck white people

when a window
breaks,
it can never
be put back
together

and while it may
be replaced,
we can never
look through
the same glass 
again 

ratify my twisted insides
by drilling your broken needles into my spine
my mouth has never been so dry
and you extemporize your reasoning
for why it’s so freezing on this particular night
stretch validity until it snaps and explodes
and then try to justify why the entire night sky is on fire
how foolish to think 
that i thought i’d finally found a remedy to my extremities
infallibly asymptotic, a predetermined equation with no intercepts
on a fatal path that i always find myself
letting others drive and guide me
while false words and promises to be forgotten play on the radio
i’m hopeless, destructive, gone
and the worst part is
i’m still waiting for a path to change
be it yours or mine
but nothing has changed, as oblivion is still approaching
in the most awful, divine way
so snap your needles into my back
and i’ll keep pretending
that i can handle it 

I entered the Void
with false pretenses
of ecstasy and bicycle rides,
but I thought too fast
and no one took from my head

The melodies—
screaming and wandering—
exploded from plateaus
which were much too steep
for me to climb. 
They resonated like fame;
they created such a familiar echo

The constant
vacuous, vile vibration,
complimented by 
chilling breezes,
frequented through blank mirrors
and infinite planes

With all posts
intangible and ambiguous,
the rocks peppered
from the outside
The safest place to be
was to be nestled within
porcelain
 

chewing on glass
with rotting gums
and teeth

inhaling addiction,
constant static
circulates to the brain
clouding vision and
sensory input

to share a moment
of indulgence
leading to
normality 

it was the key that i gave you
that made me think and reconsider
the few filters that we’re burning
and all of the blue and white
silhouettes
that made me look
for where i was heading

i met you in the dark
on ridge peak road
at 1:30 in the morning

to experience honest warmth
in the cold
is a lovely thing indeed 

the house that he built
with all of his loss
burned down at the sight
of what he had forgot

once when i was maybe
ten or eleven
i found a baby bird in my backyard
helpless on the ground
beneath its nest in the lemon tree

round and plump and
covered completely in fluff
i took it back inside
and placed it inside a shoe box

maybe about
two or three days later
after it had not eaten or drank
a single thing
i watched as it convulsed viciously
until it could no longer
and i cried and cried and cried

more than when my dog died
more than when my grandmother died
more than when my best friend moved away
more than when my heart was broken for the first time

she drowned
the baby boy in
her husband’s blood
while she made
her daughter
watch 

i don’t know where i am
because i’ve been running from myself for forever
raping innocence with a pat on the back
and an “it’s okay” along the way
i’ve snapped the crooked line that defines right and wrong
and now i’m drowning in the grey areas that match the storm clouds
forming and exploding overhead
getting washed away in the torrents
big enough to have sunk the titanic
made by the dam that i broke when i kissed my now shattered morals goodbye
vomiting and shivering, losing my vision, everything’s hazy 
recollecting and remembering memories that i wish i had subconsciously repressed
because i consciously recall them
i stumble and trip while i’m scribbling
and i cough and scream while i’m breathing
though it seems i’m no longer trying so hard to be suffocating
it feels weird to look in the mirror and see everyone fucking
while they’re all fucking depressed, we’re regressing
and i’m still drowning in what’s subsiding into a stream
no longer beaming in my now auspicious position
i think i’m satisfied, but i’m still worried  

you once told me
“i wish everyone were happy”
and i knew that you meant it
from the tired smile on your lips
and the heavy tear in your eye

now you tell me
“everything is fucked
and i just want to die”
but i know that’s not the truth
because somewhere
inside those hollow words
that resonated with dissonance
as they rattled through the air

you know that it’s not the truth either

i miss those days
the days of us speeding down oracle road
with our throats and mouths shaking and screaming
about how love is just a hoax
or how happy we were
when the skies were grey
the days when you weren’t afraid, but excited
i see you surrounding yourself with the familiar orange
after you’ve ran from the red
and i want to hold contempt
i want to have apprehension for your self-induced depression
but i want those days more than anything
the days filled with the poison we so treasure
and the nights spent in that garage or
on the cold tile
or on top of your comforter
while pain bleeds from the speakers

now it bleeds from all of our eyes
where have you gone?

Why do we rake the leaves
into nice, neat little piles,
and then shovel them into
plastic garbage bags
when we’ll only have to do it again?
Why don’t we let them sit
and blow away, 
or decompose on their own
like most things that were once living
seem to do?