Wednesday, January 28, 2009

first quarto.

bred in anthills, buried on shores. there was never a middle ground for our grand picnics. she's the shroud of turin stigmata against the eigenlicht behind my sleepless eyelids. the weather is persistently seeping into my skin and i'm a coagulating mess of the person i once was. around you i could stomp on eggshells and around you i could have dead worlds revolve. fell in love with the canadian gothic farmhouse fallacy. the tip of my tongue is my biggest traitor. there is no tailor talented enough to sew me the visage i want to wear. there is no house large enough to rival the domestic vacancy in my bones. what repels you; i eagerly await it. what enthralls you; i am actively seeking to destroy it. it saddens me that we are all sacks of bones and sinew and absurdly innocent egos and dove-like, frail and frigid prides.

this vastness will be my one and only.