poetry pieced together from miscellaneous notes on my phone
i found the meaning of everything in the sparkle of water bathed in sunlight but then lost whatever grasp i had on life as i passed a busker on a side street. what are you hiding? being twenty means forgetting what it feels like to be home; nostalgia for a past that’s not your own. gatsby winding down roads that all lead to the same throne. i’m alone. i sleep in slow motion and wake up every morning forgetting my resolve to ‘begin again’. it’s still the same face in that mirror. harsh neon lights and cold tv dinner. being twenty means forgetting what it feels like to be home. around 3 pm light filters through curtains in a certain way that always makes you forget what you were about to say. stop writing about time that cliche is getting old and we get it; ‘concentric circles falling through perpetual cycles, the subliminal, cyclical death and revival’. you’re repeating yourself. stop writing about time. it’s midnight. i’m dancing on the precipice of a new day, the edge of the perceived abyss but it’s okay; it’s only an illusion. cold sweat old scent; lavender lullabies. float deftly above myself and then crash into the basement. a vacant consecration. a concussion. mysterious things take hold of my brain. mysterious wings; performing again. it’s that fucking dissociation. look in the mirror and see the reflection utter words that have never left your lips. who is this. she’s falling down the rabbit hole we’re late we’re late fucking hell i told you to stop writing about time. at the end of the day, the body is just a vessel for time to move through. a place where energy comes to be consumed, a black hole with no destination, you’re all doomed. what’s next, arabesque? i always get the words you use stuck in my head. ‘a brilliant linguist on a contemptuous conquest towards a contradictory trajectory’…we get it: you like assonance.