I made a thing, today
but you still love me, right?
tell me why it’s like chills up my spine 1-1000 why you’re still my favorite person, with your hands wrapped around my throat. choke back. choke back 2-1000 tell me 3-1000, 4 like chills 1-1000 think i’m stuck on repeat again. think you caught my inhale in my mouth. think you caught my inhale in your mouth. it’s like the way your breath scrapes against the nape of my neck and my shoulder blades. like the whisper crawling down my, down my, like chills 1-1000 try again 2-1000 crawl under my skin. tell me 3-1000, 4 but you feel it too, tell me 3-1000, 4 like my spine, my spine as the words keep falling, but they aren’t the ones I’m searching for. and i can’t help but to sigh relief when you never say it. when the chills never crawl up my 1-1000, 1-1000, 1
—undermeyou
You Make a Better Door
The sky was flooding. I opened the window because the wind looked too pretty to leave it outside. Or was it my eyes? My eyes were flooding. And my breath looked so pretty. And my lungs said to let my breath in. But my mouth declined.
—undermeyou
dissipate
My mouth is eating me alive. Letting my insides melt away until I’m all sharp edges. It’s like a balancing act I never perfect. Because the lesser part of me feels more when I neglect my plate. When my scale slowly dips digit by digit. When the clothes start to bunch and hang a bit loose at the seams. It’s like a tightrope, but I always lose. Because the disappearing side has less to hold up. And the side that’s filling itself full, all goes crashing. It’s like the weight is pulling me into the ground. Burying me, still breathing. So I empty into earthquakes. Shake, rattle, roll. Let my insides reverberate as canyon-echo tremor. And it’s like the dirt falls away with each churning shudder. Aching and stained. And I finally float.
Title Me, Insignificant
I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?
I am ruin.
—undermeyou
If One of Them is Dead
I planted a FOR SALE sign at the back of my throat. But what it really advertises is how the corner of my mouth and my arteries like to give away my secrets for free. It’s like trying to have an estate sale at a free clinic. It’s like I’m selling an unwanted teen-pregnancy disguised as a love letter with no postage. Like the word rape disguised as the condom failing. Hunger pangs dressed up in “I just ate”. An addict addicted to addicts claiming they just enjoy the coffee at the meetings. My tongue is a trick and a rat. Snitches get stitches. But fuck sewing her shut. Waste of thread. I’ll let her bleed out. Bite down to silence the screams. Maybe next time I won’t have to gag her.
Buffet-Style
hold your mouth on mine/tongue brush/metal-crush/let my fingers dig into the soil of underneath your skin/i’ll steal away with the taste of you piled beneath my nails/save it for later/so when you remember me as not enough/i can still eat you/midnight snacking/til i’m whole
Slowly adding art to my society 6, if anyone is interested
Title Me, Insignificant
I’m all recycled phrases, bullshit metaphors. Don’t read me. I’m rotting meat. Maggots in pits. I’m blood crusted under the surface of bruised skin. I’m broken teeth, cavities. I’m the fucking soup du jour. But not today’s. Last week’s. Slop no one fucking ate. That paper sheet on the chair at the dentist. Used. Never changed. I’m the fever-sweat skin flakes you left in bed. Vomit in the toilet. Bandages, bloodied. That bowl you left in your bedroom. Covered in fucking black mold. Fucking black mold in general. Those giant sloughs of rubber tires that litter the freeway. Road gators. Fucking whatever. Spoiled milk. Disposable socks at the shoe store. Those plastic sleeves that magazines come in. Fucking useless. Empty coffee cups. Kitchen-drawer, dead batteries. Broken lightbulbs. Morning eye scum. I’m that last sip at the bottom of the glass. No one wants to fucking drink me. I’m last year’s almanac. Last year’s newspapers. Last year’s trends. Last year’s date. Last year’s...what the fuck was I talking about again?
I am ruin.
—undermeyou
but you still love me, right?
tell me why it’s like chills up my spine 1-1000 why you’re still my favorite person, with your hands wrapped around my throat. choke back. choke back 2-1000 tell me 3-1000, 4 like chills 1-1000 think i’m stuck on repeat again. think you caught my inhale in my mouth. think you caught my inhale in your mouth. it’s like the way your breath scrapes against the nape of my neck and my shoulder blades. like the whisper crawling down my, down my, like chills 1-1000 try again 2-1000 crawl under my skin. tell me 3-1000, 4 but you feel it too, tell me 3-1000, 4 like my spine, my spine as the words keep falling, but they aren’t the ones I’m searching for. and i can’t help but to sigh relief when you never say it. when the chills never crawl up my 1-1000, 1-1000, 1
—undermeyou
You Make a Better Door
The sky was flooding. I opened the window because the wind looked too pretty to leave it outside. Or was it my eyes? My eyes were flooding. And my breath looked so pretty. And my lungs said to let my breath in. But my mouth declined.
—undermeyou