For I have but the power to kill, without the power to die

(she always feels the invisible stuff)

i am lost in deep sea wires. the ones that exist buried under oceans, whose very existence is a mystery to most of the world. they are flexible in their knowledge, guarding our hopes and dreams. they archive our conversations and make real our deepest secrets; the ones that spill from our bodies at 2am when we are adrift in our own oceans of loneliness. 

i am lost in deep sea wires. losing hours in fabricated realities slick with juices from the tongues of others. the intangibility makes it tantalising. always out of reach. the thought of it burrows somewhere behind my eyes. lodging itself in the depths of my cerebrum; from there it takes root and branches into something else entirely. something that will set hearts alight. in time.

there is one basin that holds things

and another one that does not.

i realise i am the only god in my own top-down game. i watch from above, puppeteering the players. smashing up character’s lives without a care in the world.
calling it life.

hearts sit heavily in chests, chests that have experienced more-than real realities. 
we are naturally coloured by contemporary issues. they infiltrate our lives. 

(shared pain, unionised helplessness)

soft rubs against hard. love is many things, none of them logical.

science-fiction is fertile. it allows us to recognise the liveliness of the material world - including but not limited to, nonhuman living creatures. we temporarily let them sit alongside us, at the high table of gods we eat our meals.

(s)miles for miles

we see the gun
we see ‘the gun’ as language
bullets as tongues
shrapnel as 
collateral as words rip through flesh

you called me the love of your life in passing. the world span. the waves crashed. it all ended.

spilling and leaking are such romantic words to describe a defect
a breakage
they are porous words that merge between spaces
between realities and dimensions
i want to spill on you
i want to leak into you

what happens when the question becomes: 
How does one Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe?

when the question used to be: 
Why Do You Never Answer My Call? When I'm Screaming Your Name into the Dripping Night at the Top of My Shredded Lungs?

because

you slipped in through a papercut 
every word from your tongue stinging with the memory of a softer time
stuck in skin that is not quite yours, not quite ours
we get ready for the fall

lamination as solidification; power elevation

Somatophobia is the term used to represent fear of and disdain for the body. gendered plasticity seeping through neurobiological cracks.

people move at different paces, and somehow normally get to the same ending. this is a fact that is simply not true.

we are stuck in loops of endless endlessness
infinite cycles, washing-machines drum
on the lips of the world
pounding on our doors
knotting our hearts
corrupting our children

if you don't have anything good to say then shout as loud as you can

i think i’m allergic to the night. your words taste like thunder. i forgot how to spell my name. i sat in a dark room filled with shit paintings for fourteen minutes and had more thoughts than in the last fourteen days. i have forgotten how to cry, yet, your tears lap at the lips of the world.

im so tired. i hate who im becoming. i love who i am. i am in love with

i need to learn how to be alone. i need to learn how to not be alone; how to not move at the speed of light. how to take a breath, a bath. i drank a shit coffee. stared in the mirror. cried. stopped crying. pictured your face. pictured you leaving.

and now
after all this time, it becomes a reality. the thought of your skin pressed to my skin. overwhelmed by emotion, i am stuck in the emptiness between our hearts. our chests heave in synchronicity across the space of eternity. i am already lost in the softness of your sleeping breath, as it sweeps across my goosepricked flesh. 
and all i can do is weep.

how is there anything left to write about? 
they kiss
spit moistening dry cracks in forbidden places

i am allergic to cliches but that’s okay because ignorance is bliss and I never judge a book by its cover anyway.

i spend my time reminiscing about the moment i might see you again. memories yet to make.  my heart shudders. my lungs are gasping. my body does not know how to hold the thought of holding you.

when you feel it, you feel it in your chest, in your stomach. in the empty space between your head and the pillow. and yet still you never know it. and we pretend. we all pretend. that we do as much as we can. but we do not. 

how is it that both light and dark have the ability to blind?

words used to spill from my body. leak from the holes in my skin and slip along my fingers. but now my pores are clogged. i cannot think let alone write. more than stuck. empty. yet filled with a deep feeling i cannot name. language becomes sticky. language is binary. how can one express themself when there simply are not the words for the emotions that you feel. the depths that are reached. deeper than the centre of it all. i am swimming in an ocean of nothing. trying to make sense of it. trying to piece together the pieces of nothing.

(drone music plays ominously in background)

(synths set the scene)

i am once again torturing myself with the same three minute love song. the one i play on repeat. the one that reminds me of you. the one that is not actually about love but about the space that is left behind when love is lost.

my skin is slick with the residue of you

my reality is an assembled patchwork of blank faces

i throw my guts up onto my keyboard hoping for a miracle
and still the words don’t come