The Hollow City

I've got this feeling like I want to dance in falling ash. I want to revel in the rotting softness of it against my skin, in the morbid beauty of death. I want to lie down and make an angel in the remains of a once great city. I want to be alone in the ruins. I want to run through abandoned streets I own because no one else with have them. I want a broken place to hang my head and hide a smile because I know, eventually, the whole world will come to this.

The Way Words Move

"I was good. He was... Better. Best. Bested! HAH! How do you like for a declension?"

"Well I'm sure he-"

"You didn't answer my question; how do you like that for a declension?"

"Well what the fuck do you want me to say? Do you want me to say it's funny so you can contradict me and say no, it's sad? Or do you want me to say it's sad so you can contradict me and say no, it's funny? You can play that game any goddamned way you like, you know!"

"Oh good... Oh you're very good. He'll be better. Better. Best. Bested. It's the way of the world."

The Mismatched Pieces

Sometimes I feel like Frankenstein's monster, all sewn together from different people. My arms don't know my legs and my feet get shy. They stumble and I fall on my hands, which judge their clumsiness. My eyes watch, and are secretive; they won't tell my ears what they saw, or believe what they say. My heart generally keeps quiet, but my lungs are always arguing. I can't breath. I get dizzy. I stumble around in a daze because my body just doesn't get on with itself.

The Differences

I watched the faces of the jury as they looked at him and saw the same expression I'd seen a thousand times before; that mental distancing, that look of subtle acknowledgement that there is something wrong with that boy.

Because he doesn't interact the way they do.

Because he doesn't grieve the way they do.
Because he doesn't move, or speak, or sound the way they do.

I watched the faces of the jury and knew they had already decided his fate.

The Extrovert

I'd rather show you my soul than my scars.

The Trysts With The Unknown

Sometimes I'm on the bus and I just temporarily fall in love with boys that look like Tim Minchin and Noel Fielding; all too long hair and wry grins, or girls that look just like Laura Marling or Robin Tunney; all shy smiles and girl-next-door. I don't even know their names. There's nothing wrong with that.

The Apathetic Youth

He's mad that this is as good as it gets. The big house, the good school, the nice neighbourhood. It's difficult for some kids these days, in a way. The country's very prosperity has become a burden. Everything works, doesn't it? At least if you're white and middleclass. So it must often seem to young people as if they're not needed. So, in a sense, it's as if there's nothing more to do.

Except tear it apart.

The Words We Wrote

"But you're better with words than me, so I'll trust you to render how this feels in some pretty fantastic ways."

The Surplus of Postcards

I'm sick of sitting around, waiting for shit to happen. Or I guess, waiting to get my shit together. I've got these dark circles under my eyes, and all I want to see is those dirty roads, those reservations with 'Meth Kills' sprayed up onto concrete dance hall walls. I want the American West, not this town, this place, this time.

The Escapism

I met new people, I got a new place, I got a new car, I got a new phone, I got new numbers, I got a new look, I cut my hair, I bought new shit, I threw away old shit, I hid all of your shit, I listened to the same music, but I listened to it in a different way, I was different, but you kept texting me, calling me, sneaking out to see me, telling me you liked who I was, saying I wasn't anything new. I wonder when I'll know what to say back to you. All I can ever say is "Keep yourself safe kid." And "God damnit I miss you."

I should be saying, "There's no going back."

The Passenger

If the world keeps on like this, we'll refuse to inherit it.

The Crimson-Stained Pools

Don't worry; that's all blood under the bridge.

The Quiet Desperation

Then, you always were captivated by self sacrifice. However admirable, your eagerness to give your life over to another may have been due in some small measure to the fact that when your life was wholly in your lap, you didn't know what to do with it. Self sacrifice was an easy way out, although I know that sounds unkind. But I do believe this aspiration of yours - to rid yourself of yourself - burdened everyone who came to depend on you hugely.