When you are not in love, the tree branches swing around you like the walking sticks of the blind. The doorways are always vacant. The sky is listening to your presence.
When you are not in grief, there is nothing— only what is.
The starch of the night is generous with its flavors, still. Gather the rosebuds of your faith and burn them, for they are useless. Leave the hatreds and the insecurities and the bitterness to flourish—as acid mushrooms in gardens of truth.
Nurse the concept of death. Then nurse the concept of dying. Then, when you are ready, nurse death itself. All baby-toes and button-nose death… until the stars are fertilized in death’s eyes… and he looks at you… and you understand one another enough to grow.
Like me. Learn from my rise into lovelessness. I fermented a wasteland in my heart because it was mine (it was good). I speak it in varying tones- through laughter - through song - through kindness. Lovelessness knows the spaces of heart lost in trying. Lovelessness is the truths of survival that appear only when cleaned fully of love. The golden curtains of youth and aging, and the inherent blood of myself: these are things I pulled forth and groped, ran my fingers down the textures of.
Learn from me. Twenty-six girls know the taste of my lips. Yet none of them know this. And the winter lights burned brightly in me as I made art, because art is death and its compromise with life… I am a boy lost in the wind. But I know myself. I know the dirt of the valleys rolling within my chest, the mountains soaring in my veins. I am becoming a man soon, still a boy, lost in the voice of the wind. I have heard it call to me and lead me to silence. I am lovelessness, love, and the life that flows through.
The sky listens now to my presence because I took back the remainders of my heart— the parts I have forgotten in other things. I made art of it, let death nurse in its wake, carried my soul into the morning and dreamed. Learn from me. Learn how to accept.