falling leavesOne two three four Let's all take turns falling Yellow orange red ash Let's all take turns changing.The angels are erasing the sky There are smudge marks now, but soon it will all be white. &
autophobiaimagine living in a five-wall room, the air made thin by mirrors and the ground made unstable by your own claustrophobia. imagine the floor being so black you can't tell it's there and these mirrors being so all-consuming they make you forget the world beyond them. for all you know, they are the world. now imagine five reflections. each one moves when you move, frowns when you frown. you make sure not to smile, because you fear the expression on all five of your reflected faces is enough to drive you insane. and what good would that do?reflection one. she is a murderer. her cheeks are flushed with savage beauty and her eyes are hungry for fear. she is the most beautiful monster you've ever seen, but also the most frightening, because she is you. she is you those split seconds you are willing to trade your own life for the taking of another; those instances you dream of people
stories we make up whenI like being tough and you like being tougher than me. I like the way your smile is never really a smile, your frown never really a frown. You like the way I confuse so easily. The truth is, I just dont bother figuring things out. Im too jaded to be philosophical. You tell me not to use words like that. You tell me to stop speaking so poetically, even though I cant see how I do. I tell you to stop looking like a Shakespearean tragedy. Or a Shakespearean comedy. I can never tell which. I cant help but wonder, though, if you were a play, what Id be. Am I one of those novels with a fancy cover but only threadbare words to fill its insides? Am I that feeling of disappointment you get when a game of truth or dare comes to a stop? When the story youve been yearning to readto livefalls short when it
spill itI write for the king but I have no talentI string words together dip them in sugarfatten them up so its harder for people to seethat they have no meaning at all.And I have no inspirationbut I pretend I do, so that others will find reasonto read the fabric I so cheaply make.From my fingertips drip skies and hurricanesthunderstorm warnings and ribbons of blue.They drip letters too frail and ideas too heavyto be carried by one voice alone.I am nostalgic for pale mansions and abandoned pasturesmulticolored dysfunction and bloody kisses,none of which Ive ever had or ever will have, becausetheir times have passedlike the looked-over disasters that taint morning newspapers andthe plastic in garbage cans.Camouflage, camouflage. We all do it. We all get by.