Look at us. Look at this culture. The world we live in. Constant content thrown at us everywhere we go. There is never enough. We’re told what to like, when to like it, what do to for a living, how to be presentable, how to talk, how to do everything. Media is the once constant in our lives being fed 24/7 to everyone from every walk of life. This culture has created one big identity crisis. Take it away. Take everything away influencing your choices. Who are you then? What is your style without the world telling you what’s “trendy” now? What’s your music taste without all the whats hot playlist? What would you be doing with your life if media didn’t tell you it was impractical? Do we like what we like because we like it or because were told we do? This constant noise is like sugary sweet candy. Kids crave more and more even when it’s bad for them, it’s hard to resist. We’re all kids in a candy store and it’s being tossed into our hands and we make no effort to refuse. It’s rotting our teeth and our brains and we let it. We can never have enough because no one lets us stop. Who are our friends that care enough to visit without a screen between us? This culture of ours has no culture. We have no defining moments without a screen. Our taste is what we’re told it is. Is it too late to wake up? Who even am I anymore?

i don't always leave

the company of stale air

let my bones grow wide

to sink into forgiving fabric

because sometimes i forget

the ways i can move

with help from a breeze

and the warmth i can know

when i see it's not just me

Do you remember the nights we spent filling each other up?

You, eating my sleep as a feast.

And me, filling with your exhaustion.

Draining and bursting.

Bite down on the flesh of my dreams one last time?

Let me dig my teeth into your late nights?

Swallow down your slumber as you inhale my evening repose.

I know you’re starving, love.

So am I.

All of my love,

your sleepless nights

he said, you light them up.

you dream about touching

him. crumpling his sleeves like

sandpaper. sand

falls across the bed like

his body. which is folding, folding;

you love it unbelievably.

coming home and finding

the door unlocked. you press

into the latch, heart like

shoreline. pounding, pounding;

the rain that is his mouth, his hands

under this night-black

sweater that is too small.

he pulls it up over your head and

breathes more. a little more

than you know he meant to.

what else you know — you never

left home after all.

white noise, sunlight

at the edge of the windowframe,

shrinking back when he

rounds the corner from

halls that also recoil, refrain.

and do not stop him

as he comes to pull your

heaving heart out from in between

your thighs. shaking, shaking;

like being birthed again.

you hold back the evening tide

which is gripping the coast,

struggling against a desire

to rush back out to sea, where all

there is of heartbreak

is waiting, collecting like

silt. of all the windows you might

have touched your tongue to,

this is what opened.

he parts you, parses you, never

locks the door as he leaves.

you came back with roses

and he was holding a pillowcase,

fluttering against the

fan’s oscillating face.

he turns, a little like domesticity,

starts talking about the sun,

how it rose

when you walked in. he takes

the roses. breathes.

it's addicting,

the way i so easily slip,

into old patterns

tumbling into my past,

like i'm rolling down a hill,

no control,

in desperate need of saving

and when i finally come to a slow,

it's like my heart needs to be told,

as it lurches out of my chest,

and the butterflies migrate to my throat

sensations i have no use experiencing,

why can't my mind learn to let go

i'm a flower picking my own petals,

and when i'm left bare,

what then

#poetry #poem

When I look at my screen,

I’m pulling myself further from reality,

And though it’s addicting,

I always end up crying

I’ll never have this,

It’s a world I shall never touch,

I'm slowly falling back into the abyss,

Of depression I thought I was escaping

we spoke of nothing else all summer.

you had your foot on the gas.

doing ninety and still accelerating.

i stared up at the sun

and felt you look at me —

a moment that could have killed us.

you whispered, leaning so close

i might have loved you,

we're here. get out of the truck.

how did you spend

four months in an empty house?

even stars are not so lonely.

how can i claim to love someone

who never tells me why?

leaving means nostalgia.

i look through glass grown over

with a white-grey film

and cruelly close the door.

you would have loved this song.

After

Countless

Childhood

Lacerations,

I

Must

Admit:

This

Is

Zilch;

Any

Torture

Is

Only

Novelty.

how are you?

i'm great.

how are you?

i'm good, too!

liar, liar

pants on

fire.