CuttingRoomCinematic

 Last night I dreamt that I was you. I dreamt that I mistakenly brushed my own hand in the dark, in the taut silence, and that my heart leapt into my throat to pound out the message - like drums in the Congo - that I was wholly in love with myself and that I was certain of it and that I wanted to hear me speak to ease the noise in the back of my head. It's possible that I invented this. It's possible that my subconscious in love with you, and wants you to be in love with me. It's possible that I really was in your head, taking pieces of your imagery to tuck away, and it's possible that this is all bullshit and that I didn't dream at all.

He talks too much. 
The words come as an impatient
 Scared and scattered militia
 Into the crevasses of my grey brain,
 And they try to light it on fire. The sympathetic thoughts try to whisper,
 As they bed down in the damp,
 About the dangers, but also
 The subsequent safety in like-minded numbers. He has the same nervous, anxious 
Everything at one time voice that I 
 Have learned to keep out of my mouth, 
But not nearly buried or neatly stored away. It hums in the dark, the early morning,
 And in the high heat of the lazy afternoons
 I spend wrapped up

You came under the cover of night, And the cover of my needy, reaching imagery, To take everything I thought I was. In gloved fingers with the tips Cut off at the knuckle, Stained thumb prints pushed me back Through my nose, and into my head. An old dog with a new Trick, you tie a noose around my neck And I have an excuse at the tip of my tongue. Fortify your heart-broken bones with my Calcified teeth in my Reaching, talking, manic mouth. Science says the brain has Plasticity, and I have shrunk back. A snail into my own skull - Hiding from the leviathan, and all his Love for his (my) audience.

I haven't been able to take More than three breaths without Feeling as though you, and all your Sheets of music are laying across my chest. I have noticed my fingers reaching - Pulling at my clavicle and ribs When I am lost in thought about being Anywhere else. I have stopped biting my nails, but They are nowhere near the talons I need To rip away my skin and release this Hydraulic pressure built beneath My skeletal structure. Sickness, desertion, and isolation Have squeezed themselves inside of my Grey-matter caverns. The only thing I want is to be alone; To remember what it felt like Not to need you, Miss you now as you m

My skin is made of The stuff from the spiderwebs Stretched between the frame of this front door. And I have been pushing, heart pulsing To get just one limb into the open - One exoskeletal wing into the sky. The monster knows my name and She knows my place and Who I think I am and That I will feed her insatiable hunger and Her oncoming brood of bad omens and She feels nothing for innocence and My futility -- My loss. This heart used to know exactly, But arachnid legs, and arachnid webs Have seen a death inside this cochlear duct. Detritus in the minuscule follicles that I once heard "love" in is looking to be Bled dry, and I

You spoke of being tangled up, In the spindly arms of the trees That held our hands above our heads. Teetering at the edge of learning To take these things on our own, With a grain of salt. I am walking like a newborn baby On the sands along this ocean. If actions speak louder than words, Then you are whispering against my Raspy, frantic shouting. I can't talk without my hands, and you Can't look at me. Your arms, in pairs, are around me When I'm tired and weary. And all I want to do is push you, Because I don't have words for this. We are all born lonely.

I want to be loved,         (Unconditionally.) With large hands tracing my Sistine chapel skin, colourful curves, Textured, blemished epidermal surfaces.         (I've never known anything but,         How to paint my life on my own arms.) He wanted to be new, Baptised in the         (barely there) length of my hair. Because I gave off just a flicker More light than he, when the sun Was down and we lay together.         (Wrapped up in ourselves.) But I lost all of his salvation, Angled razor brandished, and half my Head of angelic hair on the tile        (Swept under the rug.) There's always someone more beautiful in f

There is a pounding in my aorta. Focused on baby blades of grass, Fighting each other for the sun, Pushing upwards with tiny, fiberous fingers. We all just want to feel something. Today was the first day it felt like spring, And today was the first day I felt like myself. Less like you, and your passion. I jumped with my taproot feet, arms outstretched Towards the unknowing, inevitable chaos. And I loved it, like I loved you. Because I really just wanted to feel something, And you feel everything, don't you? There is a pounding in my aorta, Focused on my new baby brain, I was born yesterday, But I'm no fool.

I laid you down in bed, that night And poured salt in between The tears in your muscle, The rips that I made. I'm sorry, but I can't stay much longer. The snow is falling, and I'm falling away from here. It's an annual occurance, when the Springtime gets out of my clothes. I have to close the door to you And from me, I'm saying that I apologize. For this, for eveything, for us. You really loved me, didn't you? From the place where you sat, and said "You're the only thing I have. I can't sleep when you're not here with me." From the place when I scratched, My name on your heart with my Bitten, barely there, fingernail beds. C