i dream of cigarettes and quiet rainy days,
strong winds that carry my love away.
time moves slowly when you sink to the bottom and
languish in the melancholy you find in the mundane
i used to think that i was special
as it turns out, i am just sad.
well, not sad, exactly, but numb.
the sharp knife of emotion worn out, made dull,
too blunt to break the skin.
(but i have the scars to prove i once felt something)
i want to be an open wound.
i want to be a scraped knee.
i want to be slathered in germolene
and kissed softly.
i dream of holding my own heavy heart,
tenderly cradled in wet palms
my childhood dream was to be a dead body
splayed open on the side of the road
and the birds would eat away at me
and the soil would swallow me whole
i think that is what happiness must taste like.