For a romantic in the cold,
there is only solitude and self-pity
harrowing in the body, hesitantly
pulling downward never painlessly,
in a cue dawdling always behind me.
At the top of the staircase,
all of the air in a square,
square, square, square
the cries echo corners and
you can not help but desire the bottom.
I do not want to fall but my eyes,
they have an impulsive love affair
with angles and air-
To give my fruitless carton
of a body some Freedom
from the ferocity of tomorrow.
The tenor of all the noised voices
dangling me on strings
this way, upways, no, no-ways.
Friends there is no room for your hospitals.
I will not fit into your hungry hands.
I live in fear.
I wish to be afraid of something real
like a loose mutt or a killer.
As a child I would pinch myself
to redirect the pain.
For there is no difference between
the past and now.
You are everything you were,
romantic or not.
I am still under the covers
with my nails digging
the tops of my hands.
And further still,
breathing the air feels
like a climb up the stairs.
3 comments:
hey, just wanted to tell you, i read all of these.and they are beautiful. after reading, i feel comfortable. just at home.
Rory, thank you so much for reading. That means so much to me, thank you.
<3
I love coming here.
Can I come sleep on your floor?
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