l.t. heaviness / arthur rimbaud / jonathan safran foer extremely loud and incredibly close / a.c. question series #4 / david ‘doc’ luben “14 lines from love letters or suicide notes” / donna tartt the secret history / vladimir nabokov pale fire

how do you make a monster out of a human?  you shove blood under skin, and teach it to claw  itself apart. how do you make a human out of a monster?  you fill it up with mortal organs and give it a beating heart. — all monsters start off as humans. i am still learning this.

i hide behind these words to remind you that i am still healing

please, be gentle || m.s

lately i’ve forgotten what it feels like to feel

and there’s a ghost where our love used to be.

a single breath, stretched between now and infinity. this is what exists in the void i hold here in cracked and peeling hands. thin and blown apart, a whispered eulogy to who i never was, who i could have been. and my hands are too bony, too weak, as i have always been; the breath falls through, as it always has.

ad perpetuam rei memoriam : p.v.s.

ask any soldier, and they’ll tell you. war is mostly waiting. peace is mostly wanting. the moments in between - that’s both.

a different kind of battlefield, my love

e.b.

what defines a monster?

is it the smoke in his lungs and the taste of ash on his tongue? the hooded eyes and shadowed limbs cast in the darkness of a thousand sleepless nights? he bares his throat and dares you to take a bite. he craves your violence, the pain in your touch — to chase away the numbness, because maybe,  for even just a moment it makes him feel alive.

for is it so hard to believe that behind the blood-soaked claws and sharp teeth, lies a soul just praying to feel again.

— the monster is never born a monster | k.s.

— n.s.

Perhaps the worst part isn’t the heartache. Maybe it’s not even the bitterness in my heart at the thought of you. The worst part is the fading memory. At some moments, I can still feel your lips on the back of my neck, the way it felt when you hugged me from behind. At some moments I can still remember the smell of your hair, and the freckles on your cheeks. But at other moments, I can feel the memory of you slipping away through my fingertips. At those moments, I cannot remember the way you whispered ‘I love you’ or the sound of your laugh. At those moments I almost wish for the heartache back. Because the heartache meant that you were just here, that you kissed me just five minutes ago, that I touched you just before the tears fell. Heartache let me remember. And as much as I wanted to forget you, I guess in some way, I hoped I never would.

– after fading memory. // V.R.

i. alpenglow apex through collarbones and shoulder blades, with sweet rosy kisses along a slender neck. sunset finds itself a home in the crook of your arm, and moonrise follows soon after. symphony of stars, faded out by fading out rays -- an orchestra created solely of a dying warmth.

sunset, my lover | a look at an upcoming chapbook, imagerie

Her body like a whiplash, cutting his skin open with her every touch. The red marks from her lipstick on his neck like burn marks from a fire. Is this really how it all ends? Her kiss, an instant death to his poor weak heart. Surely there’s a way out. Surely he will not let this be the end of all ends. ‘Surely…’ he thought ‘… I’m the luckiest. To die in her arms… What an honor.'

i.s. // poem – do all men find death as welcoming as he did?

(kill me) i am staring into your eyes, craving drowning in the darkness that has devoured the roses that blossomed in a hazel garden. (kiss me) i want to taste the stars.

a sweet death / ahc.

LOOK UP into my eyes, pleading. at my hands, trembling. why do you TURN AROUND and away from me, from us, from eternity? you wish too much and hope too hard. this is what causes you to FALL into your own destruction, causes you to TWIST what was supposed to be a miracle of endings, a meeting of two souls. again you insist to GO HIGHER than where you are meant to go. ambition will be the sword that cuts off your wings, poisons your mind. you continue to LOOK DOWN into your delusion of the heavens, refuse to see what is right here. i cannot stop you anymore. your wings are torn, the sword is in your back.

the fall of icarus // excerpt from my upcoming chapbook: lost and found // d.c

a crimson poppy field; the red flushes through your fingers and you grin a scarlet smile, innocent, plump, lips overshadowing your gleaming shark teeth. the ground swallows you whole, oh, persephone. sweet persephone, with your tumbling black curls and red, red, lips. ( - everybody should have seen it, seen the blush that stained your lips, the scarlet that tugged through your teeth and tongue and smile, leaving it beaten and bloody - ) oh sweet persephone, you are a queen. hands painted with pomegranate, trembling with a quiver that can come only with fear - it’s alright, sweet persephone. you can sleep with the poppies, fields of red rumpled for years, a blanket to hide you. but here’s a secret: your crown is fashioned of the dead, ghosts haunted in your eyes. your hands are stained with blood, blackened in circles. your hands are trembling, not with terror, but with the power you hold. ( - sweet persephone, what are we going to do with you? - )

FIELDS OF POPPIES // a. graham

i tap my foot across the linoleum floors of the airport and listen to the droning of the lifeless flight attendant. how i dread this flight. how i wish my destination could be you.

FLIGHT NUMBER #4239. / kai.

we were the cherry blossom children left folded between the pages of a yellowing book buried in your backyard and you've forgotten, this i know, but the sickly sweet odor still tinges my dreams on cold winter nights when i try to remember who you used to be.

tell me what happens after ‘the end’ : p.v.s.