| "i can't sleep with the window closed because it is hot and i can't sleep with it open because i can hear the trains and then i think i'm dying." |
deviantID
| i try to sleep and i fail again. i lock myself into my room and shine yellow flourescents at my cracked ceiling. whether it be due to my actions or be it a befitting accident, my living space itself is trying to break away from its larger body, as so often my organs attempt to do. i breathe out discomfort to breathe in warmth and when i speak quiet secrets into the bars of my space heater they resonate back to me colder and ragged with abuse. i bite not only my nails, but the skin off my fingers as to touch what is mine with that much more sensitivity and depth. if i clench my teeth through my nerves stroking wool then i can tighten my muscles through the freezing years. i blanket myself in as many layers and varieties of fabrics as i can find, protecting and saving my skin from the tepid and dropping beads of moisture in the air. i can't think straight but again, it's normal. i check the lock on my door again and again and again and press to the outside wall for warmth, knowing full well that the structure i am relying on will only sap my body of whatever warmth it still has the ability to generate. i shake but the house shakes back. please, if there is any consolation within these walls, oh let it reveal itself soon. i come from towns and dreams where your body is your house, thus insinuating that my heart is my room. no matter the temperature and no matter my effort, the interior of this place still remains frigid, and my limbs still stick to the chipping paint. how much do i have to fill my heart before i am no longer cold? |
Devious Info
- Current Residence: sleeping
- Interests: driving
- Favourite band or musician: bruce springsteen
- Personal Quote: we got an amplifier
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I'D LOVE TO SEE EM
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curse the corpses, call the futurists: this is the ballad of the young offenders.
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curse the corpses, call the futurists: this is the ballad of the young offenders.
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:: ehmjay.
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curse the corpses, call the futurists: this is the ballad of the young offenders.
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