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FOR WHAT IS A HUMAN BUT A CAULDRON OF WHAT THEY SWALLOW? AND ALL THE THINGS THEY ARE NEVER PERMITTED TO BLEED? 🫀
"Will you not let the dark unlace you?" and I nearly answer, with a mouth full of rust.
(Gory Rungs Of Blistery Ladder.) I keep myself awake, eyelids stitched open with the silver thread of dread, as the pit-pat-tick of rain fingers the glass like a patient lover grown feral. Each droplet a banshee’s knell, every flick a madman's groan, chittering their wet requiem upon the windows’ pallid skin. Their breathy banter scrawls sad sonnets across the panes, and I am bid to listen. It is the language of lunatics, I know, the poetry of wet bones and soft rot. Sad patterns, stitched from the spittle of mad hatters and crucified jesters, stained lace speak in riddles carved from clavicles, while rainwater pricks holes in my belly and hope leaks out in slick, quiet ribbons. They tempt me skyward, toward an echelon made of fractured spines and soggy hymnals. I let them haunt the air instead. For what is love but the trace of hands that never touched you?
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ
FOR WHAT IS A HUMAN BUT A CAULDRON OF WHAT THEY SWALLOW? AND ALL THE THINGS THEY ARE NEVER PERMITTED TO BLEED? 🫀
"Will you not let the dark unlace you?" and I nearly answer, with a mouth full of rust.
(Gory Rungs Of Blistery Ladder.) I keep myself awake, eyelids stitched open with the silver thread of dread, as the pit-pat-tick of rain fingers the glass like a patient lover grown feral. Each droplet a banshee’s knell, every flick a madman's groan, chittering their wet requiem upon the windows’ pallid skin. Their breathy banter scrawls sad sonnets across the panes, and I am bid to listen. It is the language of lunatics, I know, the poetry of wet bones and soft rot. Sad patterns, stitched from the spittle of mad hatters and crucified jesters, stained lace speak in riddles carved from clavicles, while rainwater pricks holes in my belly and hope leaks out in slick, quiet ribbons. They tempt me skyward, toward an echelon made of fractured spines and soggy hymnals. I let them haunt the air instead. For what is love but the trace of hands that never touched you?
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