cirquedetristesse

So much projecting,  Or that's what I call it. Projecting my feelings I lack, or I need to expel om surrogates through relationships, bonds mending and breaking. So with love, once given to a foolish boy in the tall school grass, I rapped my tongue around his Spanish name as if it were a golden ring. I have felt it in so many forms, rough like gems in condensed rocks sold at flea markets, smooth pearls rolling on my wrist, soft cotton clouds. I have felt love made to fend off everyday pains, forged together with someone as a shield in the darkness, leaving us in our own condensed world. I have felt substitutes, kisses to feel loved, or the se

I sat there across from him in the freezing cold on his porch. He lit his cigarette and looked out onto the water; I admired him in silence, watching the smoke disperse in the chilly night air. Nothing was said between us. "Maybe I'll head in and get a beer" I thought to myself. I was too young to drink, but on the other hand I was too young to be sleeping with him either. He glanced at me for a moment, and I in return covered my nakedness, wrapping myself tighter in my blanket. "Yeah, a beer sounds great right now." I think. I get up hesitantly, and walk over to him, seating myself on his lap, my blanket dragging behind, so much for the beer

Always running, in this vast Labyrinth. Back to the beginning. Running, clawing my way out of this deep dark pit, to be dragged back down. It's inevitable, this hellish life. What sins could have provoked this? I have found places of solitude and tranquility, but all have been ripped to shreds. Leaving only refuse in the form of memories. The Huntsman always finds me, His hands taking my hair, bashing my head against windows. These doe eyes are a sign of the hunted, and laying lifelessly in his teeth. It has become a game, my running. Heart pounding, almost calm and composed in the beginning. I may have finally won... no. Nev

This is the point. I've mapped out years before. This is the point that I know my head will be slammed against a wall. This creature corners it's prey. I've tried to tame it. But never, even a child raised by wolves can't control these things. Fifteen years I've spent in this cave. Yes, years of meticulous calculations. The radius in which testing the water, or spitting fire, was going to kill me, and the distance, or closeness, that made it inevitable. I have ran, but he always finds me. Holding me between sharp caged teeth, always drawing blood. I know the roll of his haunches, the look in his eye, the low throaty roar. He is lacking in the

Blues. Computer screen. Glaring, glaring, sharp bright. But the night is dark and dead. There's no sense of place. "Zoe! ZOOEEEEE!" I'm pulled out of my writing. Fuck. Nazi. Winning people over with propaganda. All I want to do is write. It's depressing. Blues. No one knows how you treat me. All the posters in the house, all of those in Germany. All the dark in the camps. Bright lights. Glare. No sense of place. This house. These camps. Let me write.

I sat there with Tayah, sipping my drink. The Fat Cat clearly didn't deserve the name "Cafe", but I sat there with all of my art supplies out. "You know what I want to hear a gay parent say? 'You were an accident' try pulling that off." I only found it slightly humorous but the woman beside me laughed "Why thank you, thank you!" I said slightly bowing my head. This tall dark woman smiled and peered down at Tayah and my sketchbook. "May I see?" she said, reaching out an arm, her warm face smiling. "Honestly, I dedicated this sketchbook to fallacy, I've been really sexually frustrated lately..." I said shyly, but nothing spurred her. I han

If you ever hear me reference "the man with no face", Don't feel as if you are left in the dark. He is tall, slender, with strength, with an illuminating spark, In his eyes I see passion, sparking like stars, but not features within a man, that would leave him named or marked. He is older, to some extent, He is cunning, in some ways. Loves music, life, and lust, A sly expression on his face, He never waits for dusk to strike; ever changing he may be, His intentions stay the same, Be it in my fantasies and lucid dreams, An ever-present flame, The man with no face is many men, But still always the same, At the back of my mind, b