ｈａｒｄｅｒ ｔｏ ｂｒｅａｔｈｅ
ｗｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ
ｔｈａｔ ｙｏｕ’ｒｅ ｓｔｉｌｌ
ｈａｒｄｅｒ ｔｏ ｂｒｅａｔｈｅ
ｗｈｅｎ ｙｏｕ ｋｎｏｗ
ｔｈａｔ ｙｏｕ’ｒｅ ｓｔｉｌｌ
I have candy floss over my eyes, and no one can ever take that away from me.
I’m a double dare away from jumping into the clouds and getting lost in heaven, and even though their motionless lips tell me otherwise, imploring that the despondent sun will burn my frail skin and my charred cape will drag me back down into the ground, I’ll simply fly over them and defy what it means to be human.
For being an angel is not made of mere matchsticks and febriculic feathers, rather, it is the catastrophic sensation of breathing in your existence from your lungs and never letting it go, holding your oxygen in so tight that your chest will hurt, and tasting the very molecule that the wind is built up of, all before exhaling heavily and letting others share the light that passed the very chambers of your symphonic heart, and inhaling that decadent love once more like it’s the only sugar high you need.
I’ll be dancing a hundred footsteps as I reverently play the halo’s mellifluous beat around my head over and over again, but I shall never get tired of laughing and listening, and the glow never fades, the glow never coalesces into a darker retrospect of aspirations and bad habits, the glow is etched at the very back of my confounded head and if I close my eyes and wish a little softer, I can see pastel whispers floating and resonating behind my dreams, smiling quietly as it tells me fairy stories about twill reveries and acrylic oneirism.
Will you tell me that much? Will you beg in blazing yellow and speak in purple hand grenades, waking up again when the water parks detonate and soothing water splashes everywhere? This is not my gloomy lullaby meant to be kept under hushed tones and clandestine affinities, buried under the bones of ‘92, rather it is an everlasting caprice that is meant to be jubilantly shouted from the rooftops, until the nightingales and mynas and bluejays and hummingbirds mimic the colours in my eyes and echoes back a chromatic rainbow to be chased.
Am I not making any sense, or is the semblance of my self-optimistic throes withdrawing like violent ocean waves? It is not their fault, and it certainly isn’t mine. It’s yours. It’s all yours. This nonsensical tirade making me backlash the usual defamation that is my wretched soul, making me passionate for what used to be desert sand and black light, now efflorescent flowerbeds and ultraviolet ecstasy, making me smile and laugh childishly at the most fickle of things like a madman staring limerently into the cornflower moon. You let a playful cyclone into my bedroom while I was sleeping, and it ravaged my closet and spun me all the way to your window until I was sickly dizzy, and you held your hand out to steady me and pulled me in, winking cheekily at the cyclone and returning its breezy grin before waving it goodbye.
Now that I’m here, will you promise to keep me? Airplane conversations and clustered entertainment isn’t enough to leave me amused. Are you laughing at my sadness yet? Are you performing odes along to me mournfully singing about the underhanded depression that makes me mad all the time and fucks my worried flurried mind up when the night is young and makes me go down the long road home? I’m a car crash that you can’t ever look away from, and I can’t ever look away from you. But don’t follow me to the site of the wreck. If your favourite set of stairs is the one up to my room, piece together the trail of love notes I left in the kitchen that say it all, and when you find me, I won’t ever have to let you go up. Let’s be lucky people, you and me.
Amid tantrums and crybabies, you’re nothing but rare. I may not be a warrior and you may think I’m the worst, but I know I don’t have to sleep alone again. So won’t you stay awake, stay awake for me? If you’re singing about la-la-la-love, my tune is more to the beat of a la-la-la-lobotomy. You’re my yellow lovely jealousy, in natural blue and viridian green memories, I’m losing my mood in a late night phone call, shading everything else from silver to pink to hiding under porches and craving territorial phantasms, it doesn’t matter. My common sense is powerless when you speak, and I’m not royal but I’m stupid for you, and 11:11 can go away because I don’t wish for anything else. I’m tired. You’re tired. Let’s be tired together. It’s more fun that way, don’t you think?
I have gloomy clouds over my eyes, and only you can ever take that away from me.
And I can’t tell if this is all a dream or if I’m really here
But as long as I can feel you, I don’t really care, I don’t really care
Can we pretend like it’s just you and me?
I wanna act like I can feel something
And you don’t have to give it back to me…
do you feel me
breathing in your sins
and suffocating in third degree as
you mercilessly watch me die?
i wouldn’t care but
a single rejection would be nice
any reaction, even if
you laugh at my suffering
it doesn’t have to be an outcry of protest
because i know it never works like
that, you’re not a dreamer
i’m losing the feeling
in my fingers, but still, you won’t
hold them and pull me back
i’m dangling like
the burning cigarette between your lips
and sooner or later i will be
falling like the ashes
i could swallow
a million razors right now, and
still, you’d act as if it was simply sweet
i didn’t know what to expect
i can’t fathom why i even expected anything
you’ll always get the best of my worst
blue oceans pulling me into pacific
shooting my veins under a loaded gun
leaving my eyes with a vacancy
i could hope for a million years until it kills me
and even then, you wouldn’t cry.
‘Cause I can’t promise much of anything
I see in shades of grey, I’m going blind again
But when it comes to you, my world is red
I see in shades of grey, losing my mind again
‘Cause when it comes to you my world is deep red…
For you, I chased down atlantic until it was drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, you were thirsty.
Xans, Oxy, gram, adderall, molly, vicodin, ketamine, codeine, amphetamine, heroin, every medication legal and illegal you selfishly overdosed on like it’s the sweetest candy, drugs and money fucking everything up, riding the waves, breathing in the ozone layer and craving the vaporous atmosphere, until all you could hear are birds singing at midnight and all your blank glazed eyes could see where pink shadows coalescing in the basement and the sound of your own synesthetic undersea voice, sewn up into crude stitches before it shatters soundlessly against the restless pastel ghosts; and you find out you were uncomfortably lying on your back in the bedroom floor all along, staring at the unlit ceiling dripping what you thought were your own tears but turned out to be rainwater, dial tone screeching your garbled songs, trying to call nobody at half past four in the morning, worn-down carpet igniting the smoke alarms with your interminable vices. I could only wish to hell that I was there to put it out.
There was a certain elegant delicacy in your tactlessly constructed words, soft beatnik aspersion and aggressive indie slurs romancing and entrancing my chilled spine, humming saxophone amid the alluring amalgamation of incoherent voices intertwining together into a strange, tangible, panicking tranquil. It was an art form in itself, inimitable, one of a kind, scattered accentuation your personal intricate signature. Every careless lilt about the dangerous pseudonymous girls you slept with last night, Angie, Cassie, Roxy, and the pill-popping pharmacists you’ll hold up with a gun as soon as the sun hits tomorrow. All these unsettling courtesies set in three parts of pastel grey and explicit roses, the dalliance and the nostalgia of everything, you were speaking in a foreign language only the truly sick in the head could properly understand, and the way you talked about all the mental pressure and self-esteem and choking anxiety so goddamn beguilingly, the way you talked about addiction as if you weren’t an addiction in itself, the way you just fucking aren’t, it got me overdosing on the panoply panache and sovereign shit on your bedside, but I was so into it.
How many times have you made my pulse beat when it was no longer mine? Every single afternoon, I wake up with a stabbing jolt like a guillotine’s rope pulled tight against my throat, gasping and desiring desperately for more, more of your prevarications. It was a talk show tactic, and you were the host telling me to talk slow and tell no lies, and I was your prize trophy, spilling my secrets and picking my battles cautiously, even though I knew that you were probably lying to me all along. The world was on your shoulders, angels hissing temptations under your skin, and we danced to the beat of your laughter and talked endless miles of film spiels about friends and no friends, gravity and good vibes, church walls and dancing in the dark with the devil, indiscretions and junkie stories high on adrenaline and dopamine, driving too fast and run over by the cops and swimming and thrashing in paradise until we’re so much higher than before, and everything was rhapsodic…until you hit the trigger and got me begging on my bleeding knees again. I’m scratching my nails, shivering madly, abusing my liver, and tearing the veins off my dead-ass heart as you killed my sanity, and baby I was only 23.
I’m obsessive. You said hold your breath, you’ll save me from the fading injections and we’ll run away right here to the underside of the world, and I won’t need to miss you and your anchor tattoo. And fuck it, but I believed all your twisted promises so fervently. I didn’t expect to fall instantaneous victim for such a scrupulous stratagem, this alternative relativity of drugs and parties not my accustomed niche, fucking up this whole thing. I was married to the screaming voices that serenade me everyday and haunt me every night, and I was theirs to render completely deaf into freedom; until you came out of nowhere and divorced me from the nightmares, and you incarcerated me—you made me even worse. You’re a psychopathic fringe wearing a smile on your face and holding a knife in your hand, you’re becoming a work of art. You don’t look too sane when you act like that, and babe, you won’t live too long with a mind like that. I was always fastidious about the taste of serotonin that I place against my lips, but even though it’s fire I’m kissing now, I’ve already been burnt, I fucking have. And I love counting the cigarette stains in my fragile marred skin, sepia-shaded nicotine tattooed permanently between my fingertips, branding me with your whispered name. My parents say I’m crazy, but I only wanna be buried six feet under your bed, ready to meddle about and smoke the cancerous stars away with you anytime. They say be rational about these things, but I stopped being reasonable the moment I listened to your drugstore symphonies and drowned in your cheap perfume. This chemical destruction is beautiful. I’ll keep it up, and I’ll keep riding the waves, crashing into you once more. And why stop at all? Okay is all I know right now. Mama I’m sorry, but reality’s boring.
For you, I’ll chase down atlantic until I’m drained and empty, consuming every last drop, and still, I’ll be thirsty for your eyes.
“And baby, honestly it’s harder breathing next to you, I shake.”
A million breaths were held in the company of hope
As the lack of oxygen is making the wind choke
Exhale now, I’ll pick up your pieces if you can pick mine
But don’t taste what you can’t have, don’t be asinine
All my worries are invisible like the writings on the wall
As I inhaled opalescent fog, I only found out about the catch as I fall
Between the lines of what you refuse to read, I’ll get what I need
I’ll learn to live without my lungs, I can’t afford the air that you breathe.
and i’d watch the whole world
fall down at your grave
just to feel you breathe again
they say this selfishness
is merely built up of compromised lies
wringing my skin dry of scars
but i’ll dismantle my entire being
and carve notches of your name in my soul
just so you could fill in
the gaps between my bones.
The realms of another vacuous space
A breathing heartbeat is born.
So I take the long road to think and wonder
Why I can’t sleep with all this sunlight
If there’s still evidence of us
Why can’t that be enough?
five a.m. serenades
with a smile that’s built
on the colour of dawn
and a soul that’s stabbed
with voodoo needles
crying blood in the distance
screaming out the name
that it shall nevermore have
annihilating love begging
please, please, please
darling bring me back all
my quagmire stars and
never leave me stranded at
the back of your head
oh darling, please stay away
and fucking come closer
five a.m. serenades torturing
spinning the rotary arteries
hurting me so fucking much
the cyanide in my tongue
begging please, please, p l e a s e
drown me in the madness
murder the blue moon again
to make me lust for more of dusk
and darling, oh please, please
please don’t depart this brainsick heart
without a final limerent requiem
ending with our mishap beginnings
and shove sunlight in my lungs
to keep me barely breathing
so i could feel your pain some more.
I’m guiding your chin to my lips
Using only my fingertips
All we have are parking lots and nowhere to go
If you love me, then show me more…
The Night Gets Wasted
Banned bus seat backseat sovereign serenade
Diligent difference between a limerence renegade
Demons dancing, sober stars separating names
I’m screaming underwater as you burst into flames.
Break a Leg Tonight
I’m operating on the dead doctor with understudy nurses
He’s asking for some saline sedation and anaesthetising curses
Sewn into his own gurney, an advanced state of paranoia
I’ll lie about his terminal condition before I conduct euthanasia.
The Sound of Answering Machines
Settling for the taste of bitter window glass and sweeter tonic lips
Sp hold me down with your merest memory, and take another sip
Celebrate the way the scars constellate in your homemade fantasy
Do you think you’re the only animal who can’t breathe without me?
Pretend to Close Your Eyes
Fade me quietly into what seems to be a broken dead end reverie
Liquid lights leaking into blackened mechanisms, a faltering gallantry
I’ll run away and chase your nightmares, wrap you in a labyrinth
Exit signs crying as hell reads to heaven, you fall asleep in your plinth.
The Taste of Being on Fire
Our symphony written in blood and lipsticks, for a saving grace sonata
Tiring tirades traded, turn away and face the music, persona non grata
Two faces burning into colours, on a sunrise long-dead on the highway
Don’t make me vain for viscid vials of aether to dispel innocent display.
just stick it out
time you’ll last.