echo-bloom

You are the fingernail and I am the scab not quite ready to let go yet. You have been in the business of picking at things until they fall apart for far longer than I have been clinging to you. This time will be no different. I’ve come back so many times trying to finish what I started - but the scratching never ceases, and every angry bite leaves me weeping like a willow. This stretch of shredded skin, the little scar of land you left us – just enough room for the awful mess we make. Tell me why you keep doing this. The way ‘I love you’ rolls out of your mouth like a dead thing makes me think of band-aids doused in gasoline. You tear that quick little cure back off so fast the whiplash has my body spilling over with rich ribbons of blackberry blood. Don’t you understand what you’re ripping away? (I could fix this if you just let me stay)

Its churning through my head, sticky slippery awful. My mind a messy network of overlapping highways with screeching tires, wailing sirens, burnt metal and still warm corpses piled over each other at every intersection. It’s all going so fast, frozen in place like this. My heart in my throat and my body so chock-full of panic and blind, reckless want I’m curled over the toilet and it’s surging out into the bowl. Shards of myself turned inwards, all my ribs no longer curled around my organs but curled into them- piercing, making it harder to breathe and protecting nothing but the extraneous bits of me that might make for nicer decoration flayed down to the red raw quick. Noise noise noise. Hurtling towards the first glimmer of light in the dark. Top speed, no brakes, dawn day dusk dark dawn day dusk dark dawn day dusk CRASH Dark. I’m living in a movie that will have no finale for me to review. Always another goal, another want, another experience, another piece I’m missing

When you ask my favorite season and I say Winter, you nod and say yours is Summer like it's a normal thing. But I think, what I'm trying to say, is that I like the feeling of something warming me when I'm cold more than I like simply being warm. What I'm trying to say is that I wanna tear myself to pieces sometimes just 'coz I love watching you pick all the shards back up. What I'm trying to say, is that this might be a problem.

Recently, I suppose, I have been feeling like a spider. Like something small, and dark. That scurries place to place but is never really wanted there (if it's noticed at all). I drape my cobwebs over the untouched corners of your mind. Dangling, desperate. I pray you'll send a morsel my way- but I know what to expect, and when the hunger gets too great I have eight limbs ripe for the picking. Dust me out of your head. I'll find somewhere new to string myself up.

Bones. It's a hollow word that reeks of cold moon blood. The kind that leaves breathless gaps between your ribs - You make eye contact with her across the room and you can taste the graveyard dirt under her fingernails. She's ashen in the way she smiles; All stretched lips and yellow teeth and skin that flakes off her in chunks, like the sun-ruined paint on the fence of your childhood home. Bones. You meet her halfway and she's cold to the touch. So thin and spindly she looks like a carefully structured pile of canvas-wrapped kindling. She says she sometimes wants to dip her porcelain fingers into an open fire. Talks about her whole body bursting into flames as if where everyone else has blood rushing through their veins she has nothing but gasoline. She talks like she's got firestarters for teeth and when she grinds them together it makes sparks. You suppress your shudder and turn it into a soft nod, scared to object or to question due to the frostbite in her eyes. Despite the