why are all your features so blown out
did you draw your eyebrows on with pure light?
looks like you bathed in stars
and never left the tub
it's very blinding
yes that's the only reason why I'm crying
when I see you
cause I'm blinded
but the lines aren't there
lights can't be measured, they have no shades
I can't take a tape out and put it in centimetres
I can't take a pen out
though
I remember every measure
next to me it was all just pearly white
took a while till I opened the shell
thankfully I also got some help from the inside
the soft clam pryed its exoskeleton as well
and I feasted on it's sweet flesh
(when it propably realized this wasn't the freedom it wanted)
once I pried
day and night
the depth of my teethmarks
was my pride
once the meat got out
and made itself loose in the cloud of my cold lizard lungs
once the soul dissolved drop by drop
in the bottomless pit of my stomach
exposed on my bedsheets I enclosed you in my blankets
my bear hands and the mattress
went through the entrance
but gave up on the exit
like an ingrown flesh I've grown in to You
found my place and stemmed it in You
and when the roots got dragged out
it left your thighs bleeding
we got far on bleeding legs
your thighs rub
all over the road
it never stops
overexposed, even more than before
you leave a trail like a wounded animal
your face is blasted with the sun
blindingly
the marble of your skin breaks out
into little bleeding slits
you need to be on the other side of the light
but
when you tried to build a lighthouse
I needed to very much stay in a cave
(truthfully I wasn't grounded very much)
I tried to be grounded but fluid
like a sedentary snake
but I got too blinded in the fact
that I knew my way around your waist
I know where the back curves into the neck
I tried to take a quick turn
I rode till the bones ended
till the joints started to corrode
I rested in the platoe of flesh
it was a long time
before it quickly turned
and the bones cracked
I cracked my skull on the counter
and by now admittedly
I don't remember what happened
except for the taste of the buds
when I smoke the very end of a cigarette
the sweet taste of death
chunks of flesh aged in between my teeth
aged with memories
the marbling tells a few stories
before I tongue them down, one by one
the story fell into unfamiliarity
but the taste never left
pure tasteful soullessness
