an archive

and i think that if you kill an angel you become divine yourself. that divinity has to go somewhere. leak into the soil, the roots of trees, the mouths of hungry animals, through waterways, and of course, into the hands that killed the divinity's holder.

i think that there should be an ever present burn in the thrum of your veins. that the next time you bleed it fizzles and scars where it touches skin, and burns through napkins and gauze and bandages. i think that your spine should itch with desire to grow wings and your eyes should weep and become muddled with truth and deception

i think that you should scream in the same harsh echo of the very being you killed. i think that the contamination should transform you. i think that it should hurt. being an angel is as ugly as becoming an angel, which is far more ugly than people realise

i think your skin should split at the seams and that by the time you realise what's happening to you, its too late to mourn who you once were or fear what youve become. this was your choice.

had a dream that I met a wizard and we fell in love and became unhealthily attached to each other so we decided to meld into one single creature together but the process was horrifically slow and painful and most of the dream was us lying in bed holding hands while lesions opened up in our skin and seeped out blue and green fluid and the wizard said "this is going to take a very very long time" and I said "that's ok"

the critics are raving

You hate yourself so loudly. You hate yourself at the top of your lungs. Your loathing for yourself permeates your speech. “Sorry I’m just rambling.” “Don’t worry about it.” “Just ignore me.” “Sorry if I’m annoying you.” “Sorry I don’t make sense.” “Sorry about that.” Sorry, sorry, sorry. You act as if you have to beat everyone else to the punch. As if the punching bag is you. If you hate yourself first, if you hate yourself loudest, then nobody will hurt you. You clapped your hands over your ears and shut your eyes and balled yourself up so that you’d never have to experience people’s loathing for you. And it meant you never heard their love. You drowned it out. You screamed your hatred over it. And you never got to hear it. 

somewhere out there right now a trans girl is dangling her vans high over asphalt and speeding cars below while smoking stale newports right down to the filter and writing a eulogy on a napkin that she'll throw to the wind when her discord friends dm her to play jackbox

you have your whole life ahead of you to ponder the end and said life is already too short to consider bailing early. cherish your friends & cherish your bed. don't embrace poetic solitude. stay safe gamer

sometimes I miss las vegas. It felt honest in way nowhere else I've lived has. Honest in the ways it hated you and tried to kill you. Honest in that everyone was on meth or running from meth. Honest in that tourists and locals viewed each other with open spite and tried to avoid each other at all costs. Honest in that if you just picked a direction and walked all day and laid down to sleep you'd never get back to civilization and would probably die of thirst. You don't get any of that in the pacific northwest

Everyone who lives there wants to escape, but it mutilates you, learning to live there prepares you to live nowhere else on earth. It's a place where ambition goes to die. The casinos are all laid out to draw feet into their gravity, implosive forces on a tremendous scale. Twisting the orbits of daily life like an occult star. You walk into a convenience store, a laundromat, a pharmacy, and there's always someone there up front, by the slot machine, just gambling everything away. Usually smoking, often retired. They'll run out of money and just sit there for a while, not looking at anything. Every day feels like poison in the bloodstream, blackout curtains drawn against the oppressive light of the sun, wall AC caked with frost, dark all the time. Light is for outside. The lights outside are so bright you could walk onto the street with a book at midnight and keep on reading. Keeps killing birds, knocking them out of the sky. They used to detonate nuclear weapons under the earth, keeping their eye sharp for the end of days. They used to set them off above ground, too, and I imagine those people at the up-front slots, dead eyes catching distant reflections of hydrogen bombs, not even paying attention - pulling the arm, pressing the button, winning big, and going back to the busy work of losing everything

I step up in front of home plate, holding the bat loosely in one hand, and I gesture out to the left bleachers. The crowd's losing their shit. The pitcher looks spooked. I square up. First pitch comes in and I drop the bat immediately and I'm doubled over crying and puking from how scared I am

I'm not religious btw in case you couldn't tell. God may be dead but I'm digging up his grave. I'm folding him into an origami paper crane. I'm putting god on an easel and painting him with acrylics. I'm reshaping him into a vase. I'm putting him in my soup. I'm removing god so far from his original concept that there is nothing left but the name and I'm slapping the name in whatever I want. I'm writing god into my poetry until every little thing is god. There is no definition and that only means that it's up to me to define it. God is whatever I want it to be. Maybe that makes me god.

Give me a sign-- the slightest sprout-- and I will start to dig. I will churn through the earth and find you as deep as you go-- deep as a treasure, deep as a grave, I will follow your roots to the seed. And then we can laugh as we are meant to: dirt on our hands, flushed with freedom, our grins tilted towards the sun.