here’s to the dirty-winged
out on corners
praying for cigarettes
“are you home yet?”
whispered to myself
begs a new set of limbs
to be my first and final confessional booth
Sunsets always look so
violent, bleeding into
dark like a
crucifixion, like the cuts you sometimes still
I caught the fear making you thinner,
exposing your deepest bones, but I
was discovering how to fall in mad love with the
sky, and that’s where we
I arrive, and you’re standing there
like an ostrich in a crowd of imaginary friends
brutally upright, hesitant, filled to the brim with
(I never like anything fully, so here are the good bits, chopped out for you, plus a few things on their own that I couldn’t quite find the thread to complete)
random thought: The thing about men is that I really don’t know what I’m doing and I don’t want to be excessive. So I rarely get in touch first, and I know this makes me seem detached. I don’t know what to do about it though, or whether I should change it. Ah better not. An obsessive Amy is not a pretty sight. You’ll know if I’m into you, I can give you that much, while I may not be excessive I am definitely obvious. and then you will be left with an unspoken “let me know” because once I make myself clear, I make myself gone, and it’s up to you whether to cut or uh. um… glue. cut or glue.
I am in Mott and essentially this post is only because I haven’t posted in a while. So it was not born out of some need to throw myself into a wild fit of electronical expression. anyways all the poetry was written at some point in December. Goodnight.
also. I like someone. and I think I’m at the point where I can admit that. Goodnight again.