We are animals,
softly slinking down back alleyways in the dead of night
to throw bottles at brick walls,
creating a mass of shattered glass we will melt with the heat of our bodies.
Mellow green and glowing, the broken Buddha comes again to life.

Spirit kindled from the same debris, the light is sparked and
refusing to lie silently beside the fire we become it,
I you and you I
adding the padded scent of incense ashes slowly to the jar
as we become cool again.

Soft as silk,
this is an addiction we don't find worth fighting.
This is a cycle we can't yet call anything, but

"Is this beauty?" you whisper.
My ear is the oyster shell, your words the pearl.
We would be coaxed into more intimate crystallizations, but
the talk is still the same and
people talk, and they talk, and they talk...

This is chance, I reply. We are still just taking our chances.
And when we finally find the sides of the die
with before and forever engraved with flawless script,
I'll answer to beautiful.



I wrote that 3 years ago. There's a reason I'm posting it again now. I'm still in that cycle, I'm rediscovering I'm not done yet, and that I should never have deleted my old Xanga even though it was hella fucking embarassing. I feel like I have a clearer perspective on why I actually wrote this to begin with. I could write it better now, more completely. This is who I am, this is what I do. I need this. Enjoy it, bitches. I know you will.