Baptized in smoke, in freedom we choke, I’m lost in my room, I’m lost in my room.
Watching my breath in the cold dark I saw and yearned for the song of a beautiful night bird,
yearning is driven by mystery and all is unknown for the duration of pleasurable suffering,
the sensation of swelling and crashing against the inside of my chest like a breeze against a stand of pines,
losing yourself amid novelty of every exceptional limited moment as it comes to you.
There is within me a language that goes unspoken,
unbroken, going back from me now to the first person I was.
Tell me how is it fixed, when its very viewing distorts and changes us all.
I mount one last day, and am made new again.
I watch one last desperate thrust and am remade half again.
Inside the loss of the everyday is a fulfillment infinity,
raging inside of me.
A language that goes unspoken.
I want to do more than survive,
when you can’t get out of bed you can be unmade,
I can’t believe this is what I’ve become.
I lay in bed and dream of death all day,
she asked me what my favorite fantasy of death was,
I told her any one that you can’t get up from.
my sexuality became nestled inbetween fire, and death, and control.
mechanized by visions of abuse and exploitation
I just want my desire to be my own
instead it’s the cold hand in my hand
driving a wedge between me and those I love
so put an ex on my hands and I’ll wallow in my addiction
fear put a leash on me long ago.
Make no mistake. Something tearing itself apart is not romantic or ideal. Be it a person, a couple, a friendship, a scene, a community, or a forest. It is, however, necessary. It is also an inalienable aspect of what it means to be anything. We can’t be separated from the fire. Nor should we be. A flame in every pinecone, in every heart, in every bone, in every project. It’s not like a passion that burns, but an inevitable part of being alive.