below freezing

It goes a little something like a crowded room

And in that room, everyone has an answer

And in that room, they all have the same name

It’s mine and I don’t want to admit that it sounds just like mine but it does

There are so many answers I wish there was a choice to ignore them all

Sometimes I think God is playing tricks

He said

Let this go a little something like 

a city on rolling hills

A lot of thoughts on modest land

Like punk rock in a meadow in the middle of somewhere and nowhere

The peonies like it but the dandelions don't

They find it obnoxious

Let it be a girl

No, a woman in a girls body 

too soon,

Sounds right

Let her be petrified of death at age 6

Let her found out she was just petrified to live and what that means age 21

Let her realize that she subconsciously wrote suicide notes to be published so she can hit two birds with one stone

In this case, let's call them vultures

But the flesh they stalk  just lays there and never rots

It’s because its not dead

So they wait in the sky until their weight defies their flight

And the only thing that startles her to move from her stagnant existence is the realization that things are falling around her

Inspiration is around her and the reason she found a purpose in laying like an old floorboard is that she had a phobia of splinters as a child and she finally wanted to feel like the predator, 

The one to fear,

She tells herself those things so that the perpetual guilt of doing nothing doesn’t force her into something

But the more she settles within the void the more that she realizes that the void only consumes everywhere outside of her mind and tongue 

So rather than voiding her of the source 

It voids her of the resource

 to deal with the taste of gunpowder in her mouth and fear of amo but a purpose to aim and I guess this is where God expected her to know that the barrel of the gun is smoking behind her uvula

This is the part where “needing to do” and “having to do” look a lot like the vultures and nothing like god 

And it goes a little like sticking your hands in a cast iron skillet because it’s wrong and it’s not on your to-do list and to be a rebel to the pressure is the only comfort you can find 

Regardless if everyone in the room shares a name or blood it feels cold because a side of you cannot accept that it is not about having to do but simply have what is right now and let that be okay

It goes a little something like jumping on a moving freight train with a journal full of masterpieces held in dirty hands

It goes a little something like not making the jump and breaking your arms and realizing that your arms are broken and your hands are dirty but they shattered around a book of words from a time I can still smell and taste and that 

Right there

Laying bloody on the ground

Is still a masterpiece

This is where it goes a little something like a firework spirit in a metal body and a desire to be gentle like her grandmother

But the explosion is just so loud

It's so loud

It’s so fucking loud

This is the part where I play dead again

And the vultures call out a liar