thecagedthestral

I have more chances to lie now. In speech, in text, in writing, In body language and glances. Give me a mirror, because I hardly know what I look like anymore. I hardly understand who I am.

ghosts give and love more than the living do. I love dust, and darkness, and I love greyness, I like the light and the dark combined  into the culmination of my breath  on cold winter days, or those autumn mornings when the frost expands over my footprints, crackling through browning grass, or the early moments of spring, the snow icy and hardened, melting into my movements with fluid snaps, the falling out of ice over a river, emancipated, freed, as the sheets crack and groan over rushing waves, dark blue, deep, foaming around stones mossed over with lichens and a Russian breeze. oh, find me, find me in the shadows of schoolgirl pl

come at me, I'm a revolution, the majority murdering minorities  with capitalist candor and greedy infinity reaching away from me  I'm a ship on the sea, sailing to my destiny, my fate, my death, drowning in my own wealth, right? because I have money, and I have time, and I have fullness and dictatorial responsibility, a broken record on Marxist theory,  I wish they'd listen to me  I'm a revolution  I'm the change in a world staying the same  don't tell me that I don't matter,  don't push me to the corner,  I belong in the interior, fighting for democracy that will never come for me  but, well, tel

Go down, Seep into your floorboards, Vibrate in their cracks and creaks, Muffled footprints on carpeted footsteps. The walls whisper with texture, Remembered cubist memories washed across their wallpaper surfaces, The bookshelves silent with the scent of well-read pages, Or the forgotten fossils of pink playthings Sent away to newer children. A cabinet full of precariously pencilled drawings, Coloring-book pages blooming in blues and browns, Tarnished paper, ink blots on shaking hands, Memories torn down for me like words in a story.

Okay, can you take me to the end? The bittersweet scream of love at the climax of a story Full of hatred? The antihero, the antichrist, the child of some lawless flawed goddess And a triple-themed dream of avalanches and secrecy A presidency presided over by a pre-determined candidate, Picked from a hat full of exploitation. What would you have chosen anyway? There's a road no one in our families talk about, a dead end in conversation; A silence after a sentence that could be filled with a realization That our thoughts aren't the only ones that matter And our preferences are a subject of subjection With added judgement to taste. Cool yours