stream

words are in the back of my throat and brain, they're in every goosebump and between my thighs, they are howling and disturbed. i almost physically feel as if i am about to vomit words, i feel as if they're all there but i don't know what words they are. or maybe they aren't there, maybe the problem is that i have no words, because when i think about it i don't even know how to categorize these things that are under my skin. these feelings, this pressure. i don't know what it is and therefore i can't name it. so i take it back. what's inside of me that wants to bleed out from under my fingernails and what wants to birth itself from my unyielding flesh is bubbling, thriving and cultivating and are not words but what precedes them, an anxious pressure and frustration and dread. dread. and I WANT IT OUT. my hopes are that one day i will be able to articulate and i will express in torrents of ink and pus and gushing arterial bleeding and i am hoping that this will purify and i am hoping that i will be CLEAN. but this is a half-hearted hope because we are never clean. because we remember. we remember hands and lips and sinews and the muscles in a past lover's thighs and when the pain is still fresh we feel lonely. we dread the night and its loneliness and silence, the night knows everything and there's a complete lack of saving light and whatever emotional progress made through the day is forgotten, there is absolutely nothing to distract us from our thoughts and yearnings, pinings that we can during the day keep our minds off of with phone calls and pretty strangers and meaningless exchanges with acquaintances and people we will never love. in the night we are assaulted by our demons and the lesions on the inside of our chests and the worms in the festering won't leave us alone. we can feel all of the creatures in the dark grey pool that is in every one of our hearts and we are forced to confront these shriveled thriving things, ready or not. they whisper. you fool. in this curse of the twilight we see our minds' cruelty, the harpies with sharp talons shredding the skin on every single place on your body that the one you ache for ever touched. and we touch ourselves and pretend our hands belong to him, to her, to someone who's freshly gone and whose face we see everytime we blink and whose name is under our tongues. we can still taste them and some of the pain comes from knowing that they can't taste us anymore. that they don't remember what we taste like, or that they do remember and they don't care, that they don't savor our name in the inside of their mouth any longer, caress it with their tongue like we still want them to. in that, we are finally alone. and aware of it. we gag on the flavor but we can't spit out the bitter mess, we can't let go, no matter how foul it is. their name is a treasure, a burn, an ice cube against our teeth. we can still taste them.