In the movies, God is an actor just like everyone else.
If I told you that I imagine love to be a two-way mirror, which side of the mirror would you imagine me standing on?
Beauty is biased, brainless. It says little to nothing about anybody as far as ethics are concerned, so why not monetize it? Give it some value, pin it with a price point. Otherwise, it’s worthless.
And confessions of love have always seemed out of place when you’re gasping for air, when you’re begging for pain,when you’re missing something, unable to change the channel.
I haven’t felt the full weightof the world on my shoulders,and I haven’t experienceda fraction of the painand embarrassment I’ve put out into this great bigwhite world.
I think of drug dealers like I think of my father— never really there when you want them to be.
My desire to self-destruct is a one-night standon Groundhog Day.Fucking repetitive. Repetitively fucking.
I talk too much, but there’s a lot unsaid. I’ve slept in a lot of beds.
You grow bored of these shrines, and you abandon thembecause you know for a fact that you will worshipanything you kneel before.Like God.Like cock.Like porcelain.
There’s a weight in the room now, a remembrance of childhood. It sinks like a stone, or a heart, or my weight on a good day.
Another piano falls, but this time it’s me— or my lascivious loneliness, or my grab bag of mental instabilities and emotional shortcomings, or whatever.
I’ve come to realize that hunger feels more like home than any tangible structure ever has, or probably ever will. I know now that creating absence is my way of coping with absence.
Regret, albeit raw and relentless, is almost always unremarkable.
Fucking fixes nothing, but certain feelings are unavoidable.
Sometimes, when I’m chain smoking on the balcony and feeling like shit (which happens more often than I’d like to admit), I let go of a lit cigarette just to see if the ember will outlast the fall.It rarely does.
February falls on top of me like a cartoon piano. I reek of champagne, come, and CK One.
There are rules you’ve gotta follow when you fuck to forget. A body’s only a temple if and when you treat it like one, but a heart can still break even if you never put it together properly in the first place.
And then he’s somewhere inside of me, each thrust rattling my ribcage like a bottle of pills. I’m somewhere outside of myself, thinking about lust— about my slutty white sheets and all the men who like to hide in them.
A drop in the bucket, a tear in the ocean, you’ve been treading cold water, memorizing the motion just to stay afloat.
And I guess at the end of the day, you’re just amazed that I can still stand, and I’m just amazed that I can stand still.
It’s so hard not to be fascinated by the broken, to remember that a boy with a sad smile and a pretty face is not the boy that you should fall in love with.
Then I drop to my knees because I can’t find a decent enough reason not to, because reluctance rarely stands a chance against repeated behavior.
Sometimes, when I’m chain-smoking and feeling like shit (which happens more often than I’d like to admit), I let go of a lit cigarette just to see if the ember will outlast the fall.It rarely does.
Another piano falls, but this time it’s me— or my lascivious loneliness, or my grab bag of mental instabilities and emotional shortcomings, or whatever.
There’s a weight in the room now, a remembrance of childhood. It sinks like a stone, or a heart, or my weight on a good day.
My desperation is deliberate. Despondency’s a pheromone.
And then he’s somewhere inside of me, each thrust rattling my ribcage like a bottle of pills. I’m somewhere outside of myself, thinking about lust— about my slutty white sheets and all the men who like to hide in them.
You burn bright and you burn hard, like a fire in a dumpster,and nobody is so worriedabout you burning as they are worried about the fire spreading.
You are only as deepas the ashtrays you use. You only stick around because you like the abuse.
I’m a lot like you,and you’re a lot like me.It’s sad to say,and it’s sad to see.
It isn’t easy,” is easy to say and sometimes I think that the only thing we can dois say really easy things to each other.
I want to remember what we were like before we became ourselves.
The piece of you that loves a part of me tries its best to hold onto the rest,but my heart is a thousand-piece puzzle of a faraway galaxy, deep purple,colors blending together and impossible to place.
You ask yourself when you’ll learn, and the answer is always,“Tomorrow.
I’ve memorized the best angles in the bathroom mirror from which to see how badly I’ve disintegrated. I truly do go from sixty to zero.
I love like a beaten child and I trust like an addict.
Repression is dangerous. It makes anvils of memories and drops them from impossible heights when you least expect it.
See, that’s the thing about L.A.— When you’ve mastered the art of feeling lonely in a room full of people, that’s when you know.
You give the shirt off your back, no questions asked, and you stand alone at the cavernous mouth of your suburban closet—your entire life spent wonderingwhere your clothes went.
I gave them everything I had, and I guess it feelsalright.I gave them my body,and they use it every night.
Drugs may know how to numb a brain, but the past never forgets to resurface.
The homeless dudes on Alameda all have legs any runway model would kill for, and sometimes I think of giving them money, but— I don’t know, I’ve got bills to not pay, and drinks to make people buy for me.
I’ll be too drunk to fight when you ask why I prefer to hurt, so I’ll start hurling stupid phrases like I love you at your naked chest, but no matter what I try, they’ll all sound like cheap threats.
I need to move. I don’t fit in here. I almost tried a juice cleanse once, but quickly remembered that I could starve, and was starving, myself for free.
Years from now, I will pass this same park, and I won’t remember any of this.Instead, I will feel something like a spark— a heat like Augustin a suburban town,and a desire to groweven when I know I’ll be cut down.
We skip school and we ditch chores. We haunt shopping malls and grocery stores. House parties grow dull, but Amy’s boyfriend is a dealer and we find ways to pass the time.
Apathetic in my adolescence,my heart is fluorescent. It flickerslike liquor store lights in the ghetto.
…stars are dying all the time. Some explode. Some collapse and cave in on themselves. Those ones become black holes. Others get sucked up inside of them just for getting too close. Guilty by association. Prosecuted for proximity.
Cry wolf often enough and you eventually get eaten by the wolf, even if the wolf is you.
I want to know exactly how many pieces of myself I had to give away before I became something else entirely.
Under the influence, I am easily influenced. I try to keep my pants on, but some things are easier said than done.
In the soft light of morning, the sky outside turning light blue, my answer is always and still: “I’m fine.
My slurred speech isn’t from one or nine drinks too many, it’s from my father.
My blood makes noise. And I’m saying this now, because I have a strange gut feeling that it will be silenced someday soon.
Everywhere I go, I kind of half stumble, half stomp. If there’s a balcony within a hundred feet of me at any given time, I am on it— smoking a Marlboro light 100 and complaining about something.
I know it sounds a bit trite, but I really do get everything I want now. They say life is a game, and I guess I might agree if the stakes were a little higher, but it’s just so easy to fall into a cycle. I get bored.
You preach cleanliness,so I try to keep my room clean,but I feel no closer to God, and I guess that’s okaybecause he doesn’t knowwho he’s fucking with anyway.
They say you can’t build Rome in a day, but I’m pretty sure you could destroy it in even less.
My nose bleeds, and every comedown feels like an overdose. I try to make peace with God each time, but he shows no interest, and it reminds me of my dad, and I get so upset that I just have to do another line. Like I said, a cycle.
And, to be honest, if weed is a gateway drug, then I really did hop the fence, but sometimes I can’t help but miss the sticky-sweet warmth of a good old fashioned hot box.
I drink Coke-zero while I score coke from an honors student in Huntington Beach.
My fingers are blistered and they smell like lighter fluid— like burnt tin foil and rusted silverware. Quick question: Is it still considered heroin chic if I’m actually using heroin? No? Whatever.
Every ghost has a story. Monsters are nothing without mythology.
I’m not bilingual, but I am fluent in therapists’ jargon.
I like people with weak will and bad taste.It feels like anything is possible.