PrettyImmature

The earth is unhinged and coiled about my wrist. It is a sweet thing, like kissing dreams, perpetually shifting against my pulse and lulling me into an unconscious world where the sea beats against its own waves to pull pockets of foam and fish scale rains into itself; where the sun melts each evening to gild the ground and shame the sky until it flushes with color, a burning blush like pretty pink fire that smothers the palette-wise otherness of our everyday lives. Here, time thrives; sand dunes and heavy high winds conspire to twist and curl about the land drowning it in castles and handprints, little declarations of fait

I wonder what you'd taste like, burning and raw, on the tip of my tongue. (This is how I live – with you, smoldering on the very edge of me, a young, unhinged heart flexing endlessly, relentlessly preaching ambiguity; but teaching me the beauty of words is like trying to untangle my inbred nerve endings – the hurt sends me spiraling violently towards a world where silence is earned, not given at birth, and I spend my time crash-and-burning on my thirst for worthless echoes. Throwing questions at the walls and learning they don't return as answers slows my pulse and stirs up a cold sweat that threads throughout the

I tried to give you space but now I seem to have misplaced you and I wonder where you are and what you're up to. I once let you level my heart and still you beat harder with your fists. Those were the months I chewed my teeth and kissed myself goodnight; those were the months I tried to shed my skin and choke on river bones, but I was never alone enough to be lonely, just empty, and you were always good at being gone. I never knew words could echo in such a small space but between you and I our conversations would linger long after our lips had ceased. Those were the nights you would press me against the glass and tell me it

October fell as a child meeting gravity for the first time – rough, awkward, and ripe for blood to nettle under the skin the same way night settles over thorny stars so they can far outweigh the sun's sharp flavor. The rush of network cells under paper thin flesh, a crushed berry-red, is a pretty bloom entrenched in smooth contrast, savored by palette-rich hands and camera trigger fingers demanding that the seamless world pause for a single moment to capture the sting of Autumn-crisp air, a golden sort of flair that falls flat and stale on tongues that fail to taste firsthand the handsome season-change of young months.

A week and three days before this morning I woke to the shoring sounds of the Up of my world unfurling like the sail of a clipper ship and hurling itself into the wind, torn from its mooring in pieces to spin into a peaceless din where the wild world is amplified, magnified, solidified, and dim. I am upside down now, at the edge of the map. Around the rim, where everything's flat, I walk back to rewind time and find the past when you were more than bone and ash. Too caught in the round, I never grasped the chance to pass angles through my hands and dance on ground that sanded down the curves of my sole so I could bo

Hey Bro, the world's not as bright without you to light my way. I'm just trying to say you were my sunshine on the darkest of days and now that you're gone things just aren't the same. Dad lost a lot of weight and he changed. Someone pulled the Youth Rug out from under him and he just went tumbling, stumbling over brittle feet to meet the bottom of a worn ravine face-first with a saline hurt that never quite skirted the rough contours of his cheek to fall from skin to earth. I think that was the first time I realized it's harder to watch someone not cry. He tries so hard to hide the heartbreak that it's starting to take

I talk to peeling walls and tear lips apart at the roots; I inhale what I should swallow whole and smoke what I should shoot. Held together with fraying twine and dated grade school glue, I shift and sag and bend and melt 'cause I've nothing else to do. It started when the cold-hearted artist in me declared the sun to be a triviality, for in my eyes no star could be as wondrous as the moon. But soon I found the midnight hour wasted no precious minutes on little girls who chase dreams and home-spun tales of moonbeam love; it soured my disposition and the pretty blue velvet above my head lost my passion. (No words were spoken an