[Jambound] The Wolf & The Lamb

As I get older I rlly value people being honest and emotionally intelligent . The two must go hand in hand!!!!!!

Longing

The way my eyes trail you.

You're gorgeous- stunning, ravishing,

in ways that I never knew possible.

The curly frizz that entangles in ones vision,

the black hues that drip from your head.

The lights reflect on cracked glass, yet enabling sight regardless

nonsensical, nothing about this is pieced together

the way you throw your head back as you laugh, then cover your mouth

hiding away crooked smiles, teeth shifted awkwardly

an offense to the saying "a sight for sore eyes",

yet I drink you up like you're water.

I'm a man in the desert oasis, surrounded by everything Ill ever need and want.

And yet I long for the scorching sun that you provided.

It's been eons since I've last seen the light.

Do your eyes linger on me, too? The way my multi-colored hair sits on my shoulders,

I want it cut again, I want to cut again.

The way my shirt travels just a bit up, leaving much to the imagination.

Compared to sunshine, I find myself hollow of light.

I give and I give and I give, but I miss having you take.

The things I'd do to have you in my life again.

You keep your head down, I keep my head up.

Do you sense what I sense, or am I lost in the sea of sand?

Delusional, hallucinatory, craving something that I have an abundance of.

Craving you, in its wake.

I long for your arms around me again.

The warmth, sweetness you provided me.

Faux, artificial, disgusting and allergenic

But sweet regardless.

Do not be mistaken, every display is reflection of who I am

Who I've always wanted to be.

But it would be nice, to share that sincerity with you.

If that's what you longed for.

"I guess we doin peekaboo now"

KILL IT

If you call I wont hesitate to pick up the phone and stay with you for the rest of my waking days. I refuse to tell another soul about you again. You're too important to me.

Packing the makeup on so they can’t see how dead my face looks.

ohhh october be kind. on god be kind

if you stay, i’ll keep you.

This encapsulates everything I've ever felt, in my life. This hits so hard LOL

here is the light and the stool and the waterbottle so you can wring your hands and make a joke about your life like you are tumble-drying. here is the audience of your friends with their faces weirdly pinched just because you admitted that when you were growing up, bad things happened. when other people talk about their past, nobody flinches. when you mention the things you survived, everyone else gets uncomfortable, calls it trauma dumping. meanwhile to you it's just, like, something that happened.

you learn to sidestep it or to disguise it or to wait until it's dark out. you wait and hold the wasps nest and blink into the bright lights and then you make a joke about it. here is the joke: there is a hole in me that stays open no matter what i put into it. i have spent my life trying to make myself full and things just fall out.

and everyone loves a hole joke! how big is the hole? how wide? what does it swallow? once you disassociated with your turn signal on and it made your spiraling thoughts feel staccato, like rainfall. once when you were in the middle of a field you had the sudden thought - lightning could strike and wouldn't that just like, resolve it all?

clap your hands go to school go to work smile about it stuff yourself with this world because everyone says if you peel off the bad bits the new skin starts to show except it's been years and the uphill never stops being a slope. can you just lay down and be healed. you feel embarrassed to mention to your therapist that things are getting bad again, like you're wasting her time. like if you were really trying shouldn't you just be better. obviously you're not taking it seriously. you have to beg her to stay, worried that she will be one of the therapists that says this clearly isn't helping.

open your mouth and deliver a tight five minutes of comedy. make yourself beautiful and pleasing. you want to say im not ready but life doesn't wait for you to put your hands up so live under the boot. so never stick your tongue out hoping for snowflakes - more likely than not, god is gonna piss on you. good luck in the morning, you can't process the car crash because your whole life is an accident. nightmare kid; no matter how fast you run, you're still at the scene of the injury. elastic, you snap back to the broken rib. is this where you left your childhood? buried in somebody else's fingers.

get up on stage and do a little dance for us. get up on stage and try to language the loneliness never stops yawning but don't sound desperate or sad or yearning or wanting. sound brave and inspiring and dishonest about how badly you're hurting. call up foucault and laughingly promise that any time you talk about this you are adding disclaimers that of course peace is possible and you're so much better than you were before and the friction of your soul only sands down the sharp parts and never the tender spots and you're in therapy and you're a success story and you are neither a danger to yourself nor to others. either you are suffering just quietly enough or they lock you up. put your jazz hands up, make a spectacle out of yourself in glitter glue. you are someone's mental health month bulletin board & AI generated recovery chatbot.

you're too gentle to be a problem, but isn't that part of the difficulty. if you could just fucking talk about it. you have seen other people be helped and get what they need and be supported. something about you and the way you are - when you lose control, it's just not allowed, is the thing. it's embarrassing, not concerning. get back up on stage and finish your set. stop making us worry about it. the things that echo in you shouldn't be able to escape the bones in your head.

get back up on stage and perform like you're healthy, goddammit.

There's mold on these bones,

Vines encircling the limbs.

Flowers are blossoming all around, and yet none get to us.

Mushrooms lay in their absence, creating a crown.

Movement is hollow.

It rains, no drops reaching my lips:

For they fell off when the worms ate them.

Exhaust and wings flapping around entice my numb senses.

I stand for I can't sit. Everything identifiable has rotten off of me, including ligaments and skin.

No one can tell me she's going to come back.

Wind gushes through, yet still unwavered.

A water stream nearby makes barely a noise, too shallow.

Passersby are never the same, blank faces to never be recognized after; home lays within their town.

Begging to go back to what once was,

All I can do is listen to the nearby churches hymns.

I have so much to say,

warn people so then they would avoid the agony I endured.

If only corpses could roam.