starry-eyed limpets desperately clinging to the last vessel of their own self worth
departing marginally
deadly machinations of twisted vines that creep down one's throat and throttle the vocal chords
until the eyes start to talk
speaking water instead of words
speaking volumes
these human leeches
they'd rather wrap themselves in the drapes,
ugly curtains
a shade of melancholy mustard
they'd rather hide in the curtains than touch the truth
she's really only missing a few knobs and handles
makes it difficult to hang on to her, she's so slippery and those talking eyes, lubricious.
the drapes smell like estate sale and
bodies or vegetables that have been in the sun too long
sprouting mummified limbs, and their arms - sticks with transparent wings.
they are magnetically pulled under the current
and she is lacking the reason to climb out and unfold their eyelids
CONFESSION
I started this blog when I was 15, and haven't had the heart to delete it, even though most of what is written here is horribly embarrassing. Sometimes I post new things here. Several years or hours have to pass before they become horribly embarrassing as well.
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