Overthinking | Overanalyzing | Separates the body from the mind

Feed my will to feel thy moment | Drawing way outside the lines

9 December 1985
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"This is a work of fiction. All the characters in it, human
and otherwise, are imaginary, excepting only certain
of the fairy folk, whom it might be unwise to offend by
casting doubts on their existence. Or lack thereof."
-Neil Gaiman

'you are sitting alone in the dark, what you became to me, the savoring of a good stab in the heart- what do you see in me? and this cowardice smears down like rain tonight, she is whispering: fuck me, fuck me but don't leave, and you don't remember how she looks like in a certain light. November is the sickest month, in a year of fireflies, and our worst fears have sabotaged this latex and metal framework-- in a few more years, we'll be able to speak with each other-- and i loved my ugly body with each and every word you mouthed.
'Look how we have wasted all these years!
all this sexual tension, in the sucking of oxygen
your voice an infection, a grave,
hungry and astute and always sleepless
if i could have you anyway, you say,
and god will merely shrivel up into
a rippling of teeth and clatter,
and i wouldn't refrain I WOULDN'T REFRAIN
i will pull out petal by petal, eye and eye
and kiss each wounded speak and talk and break...

if i could have you anyway,
i would love you like the sea like the sea like the sea
i love you like how you empty yourself into me.'