rottenmothboy:

EYE SET #2!!

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heyyyyaa guysss i made another eye set!! ;DDD, there are 4 eyes, EGO, KITTY, INCOHERENCE, AND HUMAN, WHHICH ALL HAVE 10 SWATCHES!! THIS IS KINDA JUST A LITTLE BBYPASS THINGY CAUS IM ALSO WORKING ON SOMETHING ELSE!! ;)) ANYWAYS ENJOY!!

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PLZ LET ME KNIOW IF ANYTHING IS WRONG!!

DL

The Things I Would Give

I would have given you

my promise of God and heaven above;

a vow of all the truths of my world,

seen and unseen, said and unsaid,

if I thought it would have -

could have - made you

love me.

If only.

If only.

Roslyn

It’s nights like this that I wish I smoked.

My hands fidgeting, twitching,

looking for something to hold on to,

dreaming of something tangible

to get a grip of, to find a stable place in,

like your fingers, your body…

To have something cling to my lips as readily

as a cigarette

or its smoke, off cuts of incense,

something holy,

wishing for your mouth on mine -

Fuck.

If I smoked, the tar

would clog my lungs, but then again

I’m so accustomed to losing my breath

and feeling my heart skip -

it happens every time I look at you.

I wonder,

if my head was full of the nicotine

would you be any less engraved into my mind.

Probably not.

Definitely not.

It’s ironic, isn’t it?

That you are the reason

I struggle to sleep, and yet

you are the source of all my dreams.

I have never smoked,

but I’ll be goddamned if the mere

thought

of you

isn’t my nicotine.

Inlustris

She tells me to write about the stars,

and I wonder where in the world or heavens above

does she want me to start?

Does she want literal? Physics and science -

does she want a poem

about the irony that the light that reaches our eyes

when we gaze up into the darkness is coming from a body

that’s probably already dead - we are seeing

the soul leave a dying body

whilst we’re too busy worshipping the carcass

and the bones,

calling them by their dead name, “star”,

when they are just matter.

Or does she want softness? Does she want the gentle

caress of a poem,

a lavish lullaby, languid, aurora borealis,

merry dancers, wending their way through

the constellations, no barriers or barricades.

Arcing limbs in every hue

stretching across the heavens, held tight in the arms

of the Milky Way,

so much bigger than just us.

Does she want the words I wield,

a telescope to scan the stars of my mind,

to tell her the truth of love?

Of my love.

To tell her that she is made of starlight and magic,

that her laugh rings with the music of

something beyond this world;

that when she smiles, my heart is like a rocket

leaping into orbit then a fuel tank falling

back to Earth -

that when she holds me, the very world stops rotating on its axis

to hold us, too,

can she feel it?

How time slows down as the gravity of the sun attempts

to pull us closer to one another.

How the tides bow to the will of the moon,

and the stars watch on in earnest,

eyes alive, a witness to the magic.

Such a normal thing, yet still universal.

It is the truest heaven on Earth, love.

And she is the only star in the sky that I have eyes for.

There are so many

places I want to go, just

to take you with me.

- Come Along

By the Grace of Whatever

My teeth are tap dancing

to the rhythm of the winter wind.

It wends its way, inexorable, through the crack

between bus stop and pavement,

up the hem of my jeans,

clawing at my thighs. My eyes close then open wide,

stare at the rain flecked cloud filled sky

and smile. Because, by the grace of whatever,

I can still feel. Can still be touched, even if

it’s just by the wind, and not yet by the hands

I want to hold. Those lips I want to claim for mine,

that skin where my teeth can leave their mark,

just hard enough for you to trace their steps,

learn their dance,

before you take my waist in your slender fingers

and teach it back to me as if it was new,

as if it was never mine

to begin with.

Affirmations

They’re just words, right?

They’re just words. Every time I see you,

they ride my tongue,

my voice a wave they intend to catch…

They burn like bile when they wipe out,

when I wipe them out.

Scald my throat as I swallow them back,

the punishment I take every time because

I’m too afraid you won’t want to hear them.

Not from me.

I overanalyse. I go back over everything two, three,

four times over,

read back through every message,

replay the memories of every conversation,

until like Jon Snow, nothing is all I know.

Am I reading too closely between the lines

or am I seeing what’s there?

They’re just words.

They’re just words and I’m seemingly so goddamn eloquent

so why am I so afraid?

Terrified my voice will be tsunami rather than gentle crest,

convinced my actions will cause mountains to crumble and earthquakes

instead of the bridges between us being strengthened,

the waters beneath them stilling, rippleless.

They’re just words.

They’re just words.

And they scare the fuck out of me

with their weight.

Can I call it what I feel or would that scare you?

Half truth is still a half lie so how do I make it honest enough for me

and still easy for you?

I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want what we have to break

under the weight of the words

that might not even form the right name for us.

But I have to ask.

I was too afraid to ask the one that came before,

and I cannot let the lightning of fear strike twice.

Besides… you are so much more.

You’re going to make me say it.

And I can’t keep telling half truths because it isn’t fair.

I don’t want to taint this with dishonesty.

They’re just words.

They’re just words,

yet they can be so many more things:

they can be a genesis,

or they can be the sound of the wave

breaking,

broken,

gone.

Texts I Should Consider Sending

You turn my eyes from eclipse shadowed to a solstice sun: you draw out my light so well.

I am fascinated by your hands, how delicately they lie, how strong they hold, how firm a fist they form, how hard they hit, I’ve felt it all.

No, not all, not yet.

To see your smile tread the path of your laugh-lines deeper into your face when we’re together is a privilege.

Every time you touch me, the static shock jumps from your fingertips to my back and travels down my spine. It’s as if we are living as the Creation of Adam in that split second. In that moment, you turn me God-Touched.

You’ve become a muse, an inspiration in your mere existence. There are more stories living in the sounds of your laughter than you give yourself credit for.

Sometimes they find their way into my own, and our tales dance, fables and autobiographies intertwined.

I want to hear them all. Every last word.

You take me as I am. Defend me from that which would hurt me, which is to say you defend me from myself. I’ve been unable to shove you out of the way of the shotgun my shadow holds - you know too well it won’t hurt you like it would hurt me.

I say I’m not worth it and you tell me to accept that I am.

I want to say so much that I don’t know if I can utter yet.

I want to tell you the stories my heart beats to me in the silence of the evening. Name them the phonetics of learning love.

There’s so much I want to tell you.

Like I want to tell you that I love you.

I want to tell you all the reasons why.

I want to show you all the ways I can.

One day I will.

Stolen Cherries

My tongue twists itself

into laurel wreaths, speaks

of victory even as it tastes defeat:

grand optimist. Knows it cannot win every battle it fights.

The scent of blood as my teeth drive stakes into my cheeks -

“Check your words before you speak,” they say.

My lungs breathing life, death and all between

into the chaos of this life I lead, I

feel my pupils dilate,

my heart beat palpatate,

fists clench, fight or flight and I do

neither.

Cannot run from whatever this feeling is,

cannot fight it either.

Every word I choose is picked, carefully;

like cherries blooming red from trees we do not own,

we gather them, share them, and I

stain my fingers the same colour as hers

even as we lick them clean,

pick the flesh of them from our own -

their seeds, bones, far too easy to swallow.

Like words. Like love, like

far too easy to cover up.

But it never stays hidden for long.

Bury the seeds and the trees will grow -

hide a secret and she will know, you know

she knows you too well to hide anything for too long.

Why would this be any different?

You speak of courage, tongue dripping with irony;

tell others to chase love no matter the futility

whilst you hide and try to forget it.

Tell yourself it isn’t fair to ask,

to chase what may not even be there to catch.

Tasting defeat, too afraid to try and ask if victory

is even an option.

guys i’m-