My pen knows what to do. I close my eyes and I see this girl who glows. A girl who radiates. When she smiles, she beams. She warms my heart. I open my eyes with a feeling of floating past all the garbage around me. I will emerge unscathed because I will not endeavor to hide myself from whatever is coming. Bring on the worst. I welcome it with open arms. – Henry Rollins
When it snows, everything gets quiet. Like opium for noise—the sounds stay but they seem removed from my position. Even the sound of my breath—coming as it does in short, sharp bursts of troubled air—sounds like something someone else is hearing and trying to describe to me.
Poorly.
I know I told you not to use adverbs, but listen: This is the calm before the storm.
I know I told you not to use clichés, but I’m sort of a dick that way.
When it snows everything gets white and looks pure. A filter of pearlescence obscures all the dark harshness. Even blood looks pink. And of course you, the thought I can’t help thinking every time my pants come off, don’t belong here. You’re a big black mark in all this white glory.
I guess the problem is that I could never entirely erase the memory of you. I breathed you in once—the scent brought to mind thoughts of blood, sex and revolution; remember? So even now I’m bloody, sticky and revolting.
Cleanliness is for the birds.
I burn through the snow. I sweat. I exhaust it all to ash, refuel and go again. I cut through the ice—incendiary—abuzz like a nice hot length of neon tubing through the cool murky air.
You so black, me so bright—I hope you’re afraid.
What we’re about to find out, my dear, is what really happens when the irresistible force meets the immovable object.
You realise, of course, that someone is going to get hurt. Civilizations may collapse.
I’m ready.
Bring it on.
When it snows, everything gets quiet. Like opium for noise—the sounds stay but they seem removed from my position. Even the sound of my breath—coming as it does in short, sharp bursts of troubled air—sounds like something someone else is hearing and trying to describe to me.
Poorly.
I know I told you not to use adverbs, but listen: This is the calm before the storm.
I know I told you not to use clichés, but I’m sort of a dick that way.
When it snows everything gets white and looks pure. A filter of pearlescence obscures all the dark harshness. Even blood looks pink. And of course you, the thought I can’t help thinking every time my pants come off, don’t belong here. You’re a big black mark in all this white glory.
I guess the problem is that I could never entirely erase the memory of you. I breathed you in once—the scent brought to mind thoughts of blood, sex and revolution; remember? So even now I’m bloody, sticky and revolting.
Cleanliness is for the birds.
I burn through the snow. I sweat. I exhaust it all to ash, refuel and go again. I cut through the ice—incendiary—abuzz like a nice hot length of neon tubing through the cool murky air.
You so black, me so bright—I hope you’re afraid.
What we’re about to find out, my dear, is what really happens when the irresistible force meets the immovable object.
You realise, of course, that someone is going to get hurt. Civilizations may collapse.
I’m ready.
Bring it on.
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