The things I love have been carved-up among half-familiar ghosts and strewn across the fabric of the universe like the dust of dying stars.
(more) I don't like having to trace that faint light through a web of bad memories in a vain attempt at tearing such things back piece-by-piece from a happier past, and every lie the world and I tell each other causes that light to pale another shade.
This is me at my weakest.
I want to be more beautiful than they ever imagined. I want them to see the capacity that I possess. I want them to know they'll never find it anywhere else in the world, and then I want to take it away from them.(less)
You know just how to hurt me best. You sit with your words—sickly sweet enough for me to eat them up, solid as candy floss dissolving off your tongue onto mine. Your promises of tissue paper flowers that dissolve in the rain, your care given in words written on(more) restaurant napkins carried away with our plates never to be seen again. Your butterfly wings of colored scales you promised me if only I could lift myself off the ground for you.
“Do the impossible,” you said. And I did. And always, always you followed up with, “Now do it better.”
I did not realize you sat there in your chair next to my hospital bed, (next to me with my cracked open ribcage split down the middle) and told me you were massaging my heart into beating again while in reality you were wrapping my lungs in barbed wire.