aftershock's profile

I. And here I am, again, sixty days after that first Valentine's. This second time, though, I'm left breathless. II. Spent the morning white and open, skin blooming like cherry-blossoms, bright and drifting in your spring bed. Awake, and asleep again. Last night. We breathed white, white snow as you offered me the web between your finger and thumb under the dark lights and treble hum. Left my mind quietly aside and danced slow like my limbs were no longer mine. Dropped into the wet rain dream...

I moved in on the first day of September, we drove the whole way here, through tunnels and toll-ridden bridges. I saw parts of New York that I never knew existed. Tree-lined avenues strung with family-owned shops, glittery neon signs that broke through the dusk and the layers of dirt, elevated trains and steep subway stairwells to reach them. I didn't recognize a thing, but already it felt like I was coming home. There's something I identify with here, on a deep level. I feel at home in the r...

I. still so many pieces of my body left behind in the crevices— the crevasse where my mind should be. (so that's where all that lost weight went) into the burnt black hole, like a cigarette burn on my arm. II. so long suburbia i'm somewhere bound to subways, maybe tied to electro-rails, tied to the tracks. your kiss of death left my lips lingering with uniform poison. III. perforate and purge the dwelling, so unstably & persistently encrusted with a thick coat of nostalgia. my lungs wheeze an...

I. still so many pieces of my body left behind in the crevices— the crevasse where my mind should be. (so that's wheere all that lost weight went) into the burnt black hole, like a cigarette burn on my arm. II. so long suburbia i'm somewhere bound to subways, maybe tied to electro-rails, tied to the tracks. your kiss of death left my lips lingering with uniform poison. III. perforate and purge the dwelling, so unstably & persistantly encrusted with a thick coat of nostalgia. my lungs wheeze a...

curled, feet up (in the back of the coachbus), when the ride home meant so much more than the whole trip the crackling TV’s usually ignored for scattered cards, BS, and awkward attempts at spin-the-bottle. vents filled with cool air-conditioned innocence & blurred photographs, shot to mark a stumbling memory, (i lied. we were never innocent) we crouched in anticipation, in charcoal grey & rainbow felted seats torn between hope & fear that the empty bottle would slow down weighted with the pro...