01/18/2024 08:20 PM  "side effects of yaz may include depression" things were a lot simpler when i was younger and content to stew in my yearning but all of this seems too much now. too theatrical, too pretentious who are you to write these words? to be lovelorn was easy without the faces of clocks burning holes into the back of my neck each tickticktickticktick echoing in my ears, counting down to what i keep trying to forget everything was a poem, a novel, a letter  a fantasy to spin inside my head but when does it become tragic rather than charming, the type of hero i was meant to be. what is wrong with me, with these hands and how they cannot manage to get a grip on anything tangible  only grasping at silhouettes that i wanted to see in the smoke for the first time in a long time, i'm thinking that something is just not meant for me i dont get to have these things that the other people do no, i dont know what its like to be you, with your countless lovers and perpetually warm bed and guiltfreenostringsattachedwithbenefits and ability to just do whatever(whoever) you want without shame lingering in the corners of your head. i string bows and shoot down birds that suspiciously look like girls, and if you ask me for a kiss i'd give you a thimble. i don't know how to get what i want. if it exists, if i'm allowed to have it. all of this to say i keep missing milestones and i'm scared to die in sixty years at the age of twenty-three. but otherwise, i'm doing alright. abby  1 Comments

08/14/2023 12:10 PM  new wines in old wineskins i lied, i lied, i lied you of all people should know that.  promises made to you with fingers crossed behind my back. i strayed, i listened to words whispered from a forked tongue,  and when you turned your head i melted down my jewellery to build a golden calf. no sign from you, no psalm. what was i supposed to do but fill the empty space? a votary you never asked for, a devotion you never wanted. "what is my penance?" "to carry your desire with you, always a millstone around your neck." when i loosen the leash around my mind, my thoughts and feet always find their way to your temple. every time—it's pathetic, it's desperate, daily sermons reduced to a handful of miraculous apparitions, and years without a pilgrimage. my skin left untouched but a holy mark still imprinted under the surface, bone-deep. the earth spins, the sun rises.  the sun sets. the tides come in & out. and you remain the standard to which all things must be measured.  my god, i am sick with longing, an ache for something that never was. what has been will be again, what has been done will be done again. there is no new thing under the sun. abby 1 Comments

07/26/2023 04:47 PM  cassandra these sore fingers, and these warm beads often cold & untouched, tucked away & enveloped by blue velvet, wasted on someone who does not deserve it.  the ailment, or the intercession? maybe both.  being the bigger man doesn't mean doing what's right, it means maintaining civility. i'd sooner put her between my jaws and bite down,  leaving blood in the water.  but a shark like you might smell the iron and salt mix together, luring you to the dump site. i have claws, i have talons, i have teeth that look sharp when you tilt your head at just the right angle. there is dried blood caked underneath my nails that can't be washed out, and there are scars on the skins of people that cannot fade. i am dumb enough to believe that one day my word will win against anyone else's, i am foolish enough to hope that my heart won't weigh heavier than the feather. pressing down on the bruise just to watch you wince, twisting the knife just to see if anything spills out. "for how much longer?" for as long as it takes. growing up is reminding yourself that you can only help people who want to be helped, and warning a motorist that the road ends in a cliff up ahead does not mean that he is going to turn the car around. the majority of the time he would rather careen off precipice. i don't feel bad when you crash and burn, and i won't sit by your bedside in the infirmary. my words, my attention are worth very little in your estimation. that has been made abundantly clear. abby 1 Comments

07/11/2023 07:18 PM  and what about your friends, don't you love them enough to stay? to pass the time, to pass the time, all i do is sit in vacant chairs to pass the time— so much of it wasted on plasticine smiles with polyethylene teeth, plastered onto faces with synthetic cheeks. reflecting on days gone by, one whole year, made mostly of lies. i do what i do,  what it takes to survive. i wake up, i come home, the middle part eludes me. months i've spent with snakes in the daffodil patch. anticipating the moment i can grab and squeeze, like duas serpentes in an infant boy's clenched fists. it's hard to glean how much of myself i can reveal, i only leave the door unlocked when i see a crack in the other person's foundation first. it's a shame, that some people never get to see that if you step closer, the knives and razors are all very dull. they're for show mostly, for parlour tricks and a sleight of hand. blades that should bite just brush against fingertips unscathed. but, sands through the hourglass and all.  all of it, what did it amount to? what did i learn? what was the lesson? what was the parable, the prodigal son?  i burn the cash, i come crawling home with holes in my pockets? no, no, i think i am the mustard seed— the wheat among the weed. with the way i've been thinking, i would make my father proud, and not the one i was told to believe in, inside of parochial classrooms and stained glass chapels,  but the one i had to teach myself to believe in, with time and age. "a learning experience..." what did i learn, what was the lesson? what have we learned? if i don't leave now then i will never get away. abby 1 Comments

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07/02/2023 05:29 PM  how do you even look yourself in the mirror? no one but me will ever have the guts to tell you this, but you're not a good guy. and i need you to know that. because you tumble through life thinking you are a good person who just makes mistakes and wrong choices, but i don't know anyone who quite ẝucks people over like you do. talk shᎥt about my friends all you want, when you do the things that you do— honesty, transparency, modesty not among them. no matter how you try to claim the opposite. poor you, poor you, you sad sack of shᎥt, with your watery, weepy eyes and trembling fingers and broken skin. as if any of it is an excuse when everyone i know back home has had it ten times worse, yet they never seem to feel the need to be as cruel as you, acting like you've suffered more than christ on the cross. it's funny thinking about the things people can be jealous of you for. like having a personality, or real friends, or parents that love you. or the attention from someone who will never love you, no matter how many times they ẝuck you. and this is the part where i take out the dagger that i was hiding behind my back & sink it into yours. because when you back me into a corner, i can be really, really goddamn mean. i will throw every one of your words back at you, and i will take your broken arm and   t w i s t   so it never heals right. and i know which wounds to dig my fingers into because you're the one who showed me them in the first place. ignorance is bliss but knowledge is inevitable. the unfortunate pleasure of being right. ironically you're a bigger wⱨore now than you would have been if you just weren't such a total ẝucking liar. but congratulations on being the absolute worst people i've ever had the displeasure of calling "friends." don't pᎥss down my back and tell me it's raining when all i've ever done is felt bad for your sorry ass. how does it feel to be completely and utterly ẝucking shameless? i can't stand you, i can't stomach you, just a spineless, pretentious snob as always, too good for anything and everything. yeah, come to visit & i'll show you how much you don't fit into my life. 1 Comments

06/27/2023 05:56 PM  "mr. lahey... is this you talking, or the liquor?" "randy, i am the liquor." mother never loved you, and father never loved you, he just tried to make you into a toy soldier. but that's not love, that's cowardice. so now you drag your concrete shoes against sidewalks, scraping as you go. and you fill your insides with seawater just to get used to the feeling of it flooding your lungs. because one day you think you will end up floating face down somewhere. and you will, if you force my hand.  i will push your head underwater, and hold it down. no matter how hard you kick. or thrash. or claw at my wrist. it's difficult to muster any sympathy when you fall into any arms that would keep you from hitting the pavement, when you only linger on the edges of window frames just to see who would glance up. but looks can't kill,  if they could then you'd be sleeping around with a gaping hole burnt into the back of your head. one step forward, two steps back. (meoryou?) when every skirt resembles mother's, it's no wonder you bury your face into any lap you can get your hands on. and lacking maternal instinct and paternal interest, i fall by the wayside. the benchwarmer relegated to the sidelines,  the understudy waiting in the wings. wishing for a broken bone for my day in the shade rather than in someone else's shadow. the real crime of it all is you thinking that we are in any way similar. the person you see is not who i really am, because i've mimicked what i thought i could get away with.  what i thought i had to be to live long enough to see a day where i don't have to play pretend anymore. you have no idea who i am because you do not even know who you are. how much of an adult can you really be if you turn every mirror face down? "sir, you are both ungallant and deficient." "how am i deficient?" "you're just a boy." and i can almost see you from behind the curtains on the other side of the window, peeking in to catch a glimpse of the one joy from which you must be forever barred. abby, if you can keep track of them all. 0 Comments

06/15/2023 11:43 PM  an itch that persists despite scratching so hard that i bleed what i don't know can't hurt me. "my imagination's much worse." the backs of my eyelids play scenes of movements made when i don't linger on the sidelines. but i think i only want you in the way a gamophobe loves the thrill of the chase. to get the ribbon pinned on my lapel just to toss it seconds later. it always come down to a game of this or that, nowversusthen. a common thread in all matters of my life. but i guess there are no competitors when i was never in the running. "adversaries are insane," words written by twain, repeated by ross, and forever tethered to a boy who wades through an overgrowth of scorpion grasses. sometimes out of the corner of my eye, you remind me of him. but then i turn and your features shift back to their rightful place, and all of his goodwill evaporates. and then i'm left with what remains. only you. in certain light, you look sort of pretty. well, almost. your appeal only goes so far, most of your purpose relegated to acting as fodder to fill blank pages or satisfy blinking cursors. besides, it gives my twitching fingers something to do, and it occupies the vacant space in this cave i call a chest. funny, all of this because i can't break the habit of vying for the attention of people who wouldn't give me the time of day without first seeing me on my knees, who peer over the deck railing as i dig my my nails into the side of the hull before the waves pull me under. a faucet that loves to run hot and cold just to watch me melt and freeze. but nothing repels me from the allure of the stovetop, even the burn. the girl who never learned. but hey, at least i put on a good show, right? whatever it takes to fill the seats or keep the eyes fixated on my form. because only acknowledgement confirms my existence &  proves that my tangibility isn't something i deluded myself into believing. i don't have the bragging rights of a winner, but at least i get the pity of an underdog. silver kids like me take what we can get. abby 0 Comments

06/07/2023 12:03 AM  hey have you ever heard of this band called forgive durden? i think you'd really hate them. i'm loved, i'm loved, i'm loved. and i know for sure it's true.  i know that there are people who think of me when they look up at the stars and who mutter my name when they pluck petals off of flowers.  but they're not here, and i wish they were. because it's just one of those days where i feel different from everyone around me—just slightly off. almostbutnotquitethere. i can always, always, always tell. it shows in the subtle shift of their features, and i've done something fundamentally disconnected from the normal human experience.  [everyone disliked that.] believe it or not, i'm not as dumb as i look. i know what people think about me. no matter what, i can always come up with something ten times worse. nice try, but no one hates me like i hate myself. i know i'm weak, i wish i was tougher. all the time. forever the kid who scraped their knee on the playground and had to go back inside. i wish i could be like everybody else. you'd think i'd learn, after a dozen or so years. but i love playing the comic relief, the shame of the idiot fooled twice, the kicked dog that always comes back. obsessed with hurting and trying desperately to make something out of my own misery. "a man takes his sadness and throws it away but then he's still left with his hands." so i come home and cry over people that don't deserve it, who i know i'm better than because i take on the herculean task of practising this thing called "empathy." it's when you try to identify with another person and understand what they are feeling. you should try it some time. i heard it's all the rage with people who aren't you. sticks and stones can break my bones but words will always hurt me. maybe you're opaque to everyone else, but you're completely transparent to me. i can smell insecurity a mile away. takes one to know one but i've never used it as an excuse to treat my friends the way that you treat me. but hey, i can rest easy at night knowing i've got something on you—at least i've always had friends. muchloveabbyx 1 Comments

06/06/2023 06:57 PM  if you don't love me at my cobra starship then you don't deserve me at my midtown. a miserable boy who wrung his miserable wrists so dry they never healed the same. dragging his feet he walks the world, only to come back home and shut the blinds. i don't know why i bother to approach the window, or press my ear against the glass, or try to peek in between the slats. the noise is muffled, it's always muffled, and a vague shadow of a figure moves around in the dark. it's always dark.  like hell would i ever use the front door.  why am i even so desperate to get a glimpse. i already know what he does in there. he lies on the cold kitchen floor surrounded by a collection of carving knives that he swears never to touch again but still they beg for a taste of skin. he sits in a chair facing the wall and empties bottles upon bottles in the hopes a personality will bloom. he never speaks but plays dull records to occupy the silence. and i've seen guests come through but he never invites me in. day and night, he sees me staked outside the house and waves, almost taunting me.  because despite everything i think that i know, i can't help but wonder if he does anything else in there that i can't see or hear. and either he doesn't notice me in the bushes, or he doesn't care. or the third possibility—thisoneismyfavourite—the miserable boy is too afraid of what miserable things i might see in there, if i had a better look. as if i haven't mopped up blood before. mine mostly, but another's couldn't be any different. haven't you heard two out of three ain't bad? but you gave up the wrists to save the heart.  was it worth it, if you never use it? seems to me like you lack all three. so what lingers inside? a mess of a boy, or worse—everything that i had expected. completely and utterly predictable. i'll keep writing until i figure you out. "then you'll die with that pen in your hand." i can already hear your voice in my head. obsessed with writing stories out of words people never said & things they never thought, saint abby. 0 Comments

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