"i can only write
poetry after three shots of vodka and a white blunt that reminds
me of salt and your lips, my french professor thinks i'm
having an affair with her son, i keep writing stories about
children with orange hands, i keep making films about lovers who
always die in car crashes, my mother tells me i am mentally ill,
i don't like how the purple pills make me feel, the blue ones
remind me of open doors, red roses are scattered across my liver,
i am bleeding out memories of your laugh, i am building museums
in my chest, tell me this isn't a poem, tell me this is just
random words woven together, tel me that the graffiti on your
hospital wall isn't art, tell me that clocks don't read
time, i am holding hell in my mouth, my palms are covered in
roaches, you want meaning in everything, you want to find change
in the couch cushions but you have no house, you have no home -
just a body and a canvas of bones, tied together with skin and
one mouth, like a bullet for a bullet, ready to destroy; ready to
build."
— (via irynka)
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Unintentional_Stalker · 8 years ago
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I always loved this.