seanna

your finger maps a route from Point A to Point B and it detours and meanders through valleys and over hills until we are dizzy spinning gasping for the end

Cast my line and wait and wait and wait; ice running into water around me, my hair turning into water around me. Pity the fish I catch as I slit it tail to gill. I empty so many, leave the carcasses like trash bags; rot stink putrefy decompose - I need to know I am not alone.

Everything continues as normal, everyone goes on like usual; as if there wasn't a gaping hole in the world. And I should wear it on my chest, in my eyes, in every word I speak - but it's not there. Like everything and everyone, it's gone from me mostly. A word, a laugh, a sudden memory brings it back. And for a moment, for a minute, I wear it on my chest, and in my eyes, and in my voice. These moments are not enough to make up for this you-shaped hole. There should be posters on every telephone pole and billboards with your face and everyone should know your name and your laugh should play on the radio. But everyone walks on as normal, an

A man who tore at my mind like a half-forgotten dream; pieces of ideas burning, tugging my thoughts to him as a child. For a moment, the present would not exist; our world of dreams more real than the world around me.  Another gift from him to me. I remember late phone calls, strung together as lanterns; the only thing that brightened the winter in my heart. I was a risk not many would have taken, with tears caught in my throat and a howling in my head. You gave me air when I couldn't find my lungs but love isn't a respirator. I still have tears trapped in my throat and I gasp for air occasionally but the howling has grown faint. Sometimes

It's not a back alley and I'm not wearing just a trench coat but this is snaking around me like smoke, like cigarette smoke from parted lips; I can feel your fire. I've been here  before but we've exchanged places and suddenly my breath catches, snagged in my throat (you always said I smoked too much).  Except you're not here, it's someone else but I can't stop, not anymore; that song is playing in my veins, I don't care, this is what I've died for.  Remember? And I will empty myself until I can be filled no more.

 I wanted to be as big as the smallest person; thumb-sized but without wings, thank you -- don't want no one thinking I'm some sort of bug with a stinger because they'd make a short person's life even shorter. Like Thumbelina, I wished you could buy me as a seed, plant me in some out of the way corner with a nice window view of the ocean, of the mountains, of the valley, or maybe just a nice garden. I'd crawl out of the flower, pollen in my hair, in my nose, all over me like dirt, and you'd say, "Isn't opium made from that?" I wanted to talk to ants, crawl through cracks in the floorboards and the walls and I wanted to walk under doors wit

Gnarled roots of the only tree stand through dirt of a mountain: brown as a tan and muscular, calloused tips stretched out deep as stroking the heart of the world because it can.

She is alone with obscenity flashing through her like red lightening, like trainwreck lines. Eyes wide, tearing through bodies like camera lights, she is standing open and alone. Drugged up on sweet fog, people would blur her face, her hair becomes lines in her skin, becomes rusted wings, becomes wet with sea salt. She stands alone, obscene. They blur themselves down to the faintest of flaws, every eye, every nose, every mouth within an inch of a doll's. Child-thin, they smell candy flowers, paint on jewelled rain, their bodies becoming porcelain and sexless. Her eyes are frightening, they say, like a vulture's, like greying pe

My limbs are quivering alabaster twigs, shedding burned leaves to milk-water puddles. Trail a runway of light between slimy rocks and avoid blind worms. Spectres keep themselves hidden and rip branches off weeping willows. "Cheer up!" they shout, like the crack of wind, whipping my face. "For what is there to weep about? You're rooted, you dig yourself deeper everyday, now no one can shake the dirt from your feet." The weeping willow, forlorn and genderless, sweeps the spectres clear and shivers leaf-laden tentacles, "How       you forget," it whispered, "the sting of moonbeams on your cheek, when ocea

I want to slip into your bed like another bad habit. Pick me up, put me down, let me be your addiction, obsession, only-fucking-thing. (the way you are for me) I'm not the subject, only the object - let me be your object. Your fingers on me are my purpose, the way a pen begs to be used and a car to be driven; you are my purpose. I feel like the earth being shaped under God or a skyscraper built - you gave me a world and it is you. So come here, come closer, put those hands on me and pull me tight against your skin, fill me up.

your finger maps a route from Point A to Point B and it detours and meanders through valleys and over hills until we are dizzy spinning gasping for the end

all i ever want, is just not to need fuel like an overstuffed robot -- spitting out pollution; exhaling fumes. xanax, is a pale, pale shadow next to my friend, ana.