spineless. sometimes i put my handspineless. by *ohsostarryeyed
to my back and trace my spine
just to make sure its still there.
i will never grow up,
never be beautiful enough,
never pull that haze of
green smoke into or away
from my chest.
that is your home,
and i regret to say that
i have lost your eviction
notice.
im terribly sorry for the
way you still make me bleed
silent screams biting
their way over my tongue;
im terribly sorry,
but how the fuck can i
stop loving you when i cant
forget you long enough to look
in the mirror and see you in the
glass.
you tell me in no (un)certain words
that i am not anything to you,
and i just nod and smile,
just clu
loud and close i want to write you a letter -loud and close by *ohsostarryeyed
you know the kind, the ones you see after a funeral,
the ones that say too much because no one knows the
difference between too much and not enough,
the ones that only surface because their authors
have solid confidence that their recipients will never see them.
the thing is, that won't be happening.
you won't die, and i know this because i am never wrong,
and when i set my mind on something, i'm not letting go.
my point: this is your posthumous,
prehumous,
maybe just humous
letter from me to you, and i'd ask you what you think of it,
only i'm not sure if that's the protocol
(or proper
that 1950s kind of love her family expected me to give a eulogy; what they do not remember is that they do not like me, they tell me that photography does not a profession make, they pucker their lips and narrow their eyes and wring their wrists because i married their daughter, their sister. she was twenty, and as far as they cared, it was my fault that she was dead.that 1950s kind of love by *ohsostarryeyed
"martin?" the man dressed in black, which was every man, but this one wore a red tie and stood at the podium, stage-whispered. that was the last time i heard my name.
it was her mother who helped me up the shallow stairs, lace handkerchief snuggling her nose raw. "hav
writing. im not a writerwriting. by *ohsostarryeyed
because i apologise for
what i write
im not a writer
because i hate the
craft and the
thorns it pricks into
wounds
sticky and healing
im not a writer
because i dont give a
fuck about your
apostrophes and periods,
full stops or
half stops or
broken wo rds or
legs
im a writer
because i can look at
any fucking poem ive ever
pressed onto paper
and tell you exactly what
i felt
exactly what its about
exactly what colour my face
was turning like the earth
whether it be blue
or green or red or white
and you know what
youre going to like this
and you wont know why
or if you do i hope you know
Sta.sh
Neglect 
