out of the desert.
& into the sun
and all of these transparent dreams give way to tomorrow in one way or another; ice cream for a night, love while the money lasts, life while the blood pumps. monsters can chase all they want, their claws wrapped in cellophone under orange peel skies, hearts in bubblewrap to maybe make the fall hurt a little less, beacuse when tomorrow ends, sunsets in veins and kisses won’t taste like sugar sprinkles, they’ll be broken daggers to the hilt in your chest.
maybe the people in the city know of shattered dreams and deadbeat jobs and false families at the office parties; hunched shoulders with gucci purses and coach shoes; townspeople know of the roller rink and bongs and secret parties out back in jeans and t-shirts and converse; country kids know of the cotton summer suns and quiet melody birds and sticky syrup fingers from sunday morning breakfast before church in stiff shirts and pressed pants and shined shoes; people everywhere, though, know of love and moths and their habits, of songs of silence, of skies of inspiration, but what if none of that was true?
it’s loud when it hits you; it’s a train, broken bones against shattered windows, the conductor staring in horror as the emergency brakes lock and off the rails, off the bridge, tipping tumbling falling spilling— maybe some will survive and maybe the pills will kill you in your sleep with your therapy in your earbuds and your note crumpled, an always ruined page in your hand. Honor is lost, says mom, and damn your father for never being there to save you from your foolish ways; salvation could’ve come for her vagabond son, vagrant daughter.
okay. sunset kisses taste sweeter than syrup again, you hit the water like you fall into a lover’s arms on a feather bed, your city escapade bringing you home to the safety of someone who loves you. and the speakers pump again for one more night, and your pills are measured properly for one more night, and you eat every portion you should. fluttering stars hide behind storm clouds for now, and maybe it’ll all not be. maybe things’ll have that chestnut poison edge once more, the tipped dagger always seeming just that inviting. but another night, say the stars, and who are you to argue?
maybe the people in the city know of shattered dreams and deadbeat jobs and false families at the office parties; hunched shoulders with gucci purses and coach shoes; townspeople know of the roller rink and bongs and secret parties out back in jeans and t-shirts and converse; country kids know of the cotton summer suns and quiet melody birds and sticky syrup fingers from sunday morning breakfast before church in stiff shirts and pressed pants and shined shoes; people everywhere, though, know of love and moths and their habits, of songs of silence, of skies of inspiration, but what if none of that was true?
it’s loud when it hits you; it’s a train, broken bones against shattered windows, the conductor staring in horror as the emergency brakes lock and off the rails, off the bridge, tipping tumbling falling spilling— maybe some will survive and maybe the pills will kill you in your sleep with your therapy in your earbuds and your note crumpled, an always ruined page in your hand. Honor is lost, says mom, and damn your father for never being there to save you from your foolish ways; salvation could’ve come for her vagabond son, vagrant daughter.
okay. sunset kisses taste sweeter than syrup again, you hit the water like you fall into a lover’s arms on a feather bed, your city escapade bringing you home to the safety of someone who loves you. and the speakers pump again for one more night, and your pills are measured properly for one more night, and you eat every portion you should. fluttering stars hide behind storm clouds for now, and maybe it’ll all not be. maybe things’ll have that chestnut poison edge once more, the tipped dagger always seeming just that inviting. but another night, say the stars, and who are you to argue?