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Rewriting Your Heartlines

Trust the universality of your particular concerns.

11:11 pm

sweet starshine lover
i wished for you— can’t tell you
or we won’t come true

🌙✨

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ghost pains + sharp objects (the remix)

they say an amputee can still ache
in the empty place where the limb used to be
can feel the quake of neurons that don’t exist
in a combination of air and leftover space

but there are no scientific studies on the sensation
of being missed, the heavy difference in here and there,
no scholarly articles published on the fact that
tattoos worsen in their permanence when they’ve been kissed,
but she’s been working on calculating her own formulas,
detailing her argument on the earnestness of heart pangs
hypothesizing and theorizing

your name smarts like broken glass in her mouth,
she could cut herself on the edges of your promises

so she’s just going to write
a few words
carve each of them
in her particularly picked places:
collarbone, jawline,
eyelid, sternum,
spaces between ribs,

it smells like honeyed iron,
drips and slithers in threadings
of sorry, scarlet snakes,
all the letters snarl at her
swollen and furious and glaring:
cinders,
temptation,
candy,
crooked,
vanish,
but there aren’t enough,

she can still feel you like persistent splinters she wants picked out from under her skin,
and the kitchen knives are too
big for her tiny fingers,
so she holds just one steady
between both hands,
drags,
tugs,
grinds,
along the arcing edges
until it’s beating turns to squirming
ventricles pleading to hold
themselves in place

and the certain, silver blade
makes such short work of them,
splits half a smile in her shallow face
the placid water of her eyes
when she takes it,
breathing out,
bleeding out,
leaves just a cool
wisping draft in that
gaping space
where she used to ache

forgetful flossing

wisdom teeth heart throb
you’ve been leaving holes in my
mouth, sweet novocaine

dear pocahontas,

little fairytale girl

makes castles out of colored blocks,
hums nursery rhymes about ticking clocks, doesn’t want to listen but
she loves to talk

little fairytale girl

kisses frogs
and plays pretend,
hoping they’ll turn into girlfriends
instead of princes
since boys don’t tend to taste
as sweet as princesses do

little fairytale girl
braids feathers to the ends of her hair and
wipes her face with fingerpaints

ties tiny broken parts of her
obsidian heart to the ends of arrows,
thinking she might shoot down her
second star to the right
with homemade cupid’s
darts

little fairytale girl
acts as though she knows how to dance with wolves

wish she may
wish she might

i’ve got teeth too sharp
and words that
bite

sharp objects

track choice — Left Alone (feat. Chet Faker) by Flume

she’s just going to write
a few words
carve each of them
in her particularly picked places:
collarbone, jawline,
eyelid, sternum,
between ribs,

it smells like honeyed iron,
drips and slithers in threadings
of sorry, scarlet snakes,
all the letters snarl at her
swollen and furious and glaring:
cinders,
temptation,
candy,
crooked,
vanish,
but there aren’t enough,

she can still feel it like a persistent poison
that she only wants gone,
and the kitchen knives are too
big for her tiny fingers,
so she holds just one steady
between both hands,
drags,
tugs,
grinds,
along the arcing edges
until it’s beating turns to squirming
ventricles pleading to hold
themselves in place

and the certain, silver blade
makes such short work of them,
splits half a smile in her shallow face
the placid water of her eyes
when she takes it,
breathing out,
bleeding out,
leaves just a cool
wisping draft in that
gaping space
where she used to ache

kaleidoscope

the lights braid into each other
stain the backs of my eyes,
waves of slicked shimmering hues
and sparked electric sounds
make my skin feel alive,

i catch on to flashes of you

heart thumping when it figures out
you’re right there, i think
somewhere through the dripping tangles
of limbs and twisting hips and too many
spectral mouths on mine,

getting lost in pairs of rainbow lips
to let the colors restart me again

ghost pains

they say an amputee can still ache
in the empty place where the limb used to be
can feel the quake of neurons that don’t exist
in a combination of air and leftover space

but there are no scientific studies on the sensation
of being missed, the heavy difference in here and there,
no scholarly articles published on the fact that
tattoos worsen in their permanence when they’ve been kissed,
but she’s been working on calculating her own formulas,
detailing her argument on the earnestness of heart pangs
hypothesizing and theorizing

because the measurement of time spent apart
proves that any length of longing between two lovers
leaves them like hospital patients curling under covers
looking for where each other went

weather patterns

the meteorologist watches and waits;
she maps out the heartache thunderclouds,
the soulmate fog banks, always getting ahead
of herself with questions in flirtations,
jealous guesstimations
just trying to get straight
will it rain tomorrow?
did the sun mean what it said?

but the storm chaser doesn’t bother;
she keeps herself running instead,
missing contemplations of mundane conversations,
and she craves coffee shop temptations,
lightning bolt starts to her heart,
kisses traded with misread hurricanes
and tornado devastations,
because at least it will be what she loves
that finally tears her apart.

track record

“She’s quick
for how small she is,”
they say, laughing through their
how-did-she-win gasps for air,
all having tried to keep pace, and she
just smiles, just grins
with those catch-me-if-you-can
blushes flushing her face
because they can’t really tell,
through the swing of her legs,
the tangled hell of hair and sweat,
that she’s only trying to run
from everything she can’t remember
to forget.

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