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daisies in her name --part 5it’s not me who has these broken feet and hands that smell from ten feet away a cooking lobster I hat seeing those poor bastards in the pot always boils dry let me find the question again here’s how it really went down I was bad I was awful no get back on track I was I was in the river I mean the van and I was driving stopped took her away to an apartment in the city lived here two months thought it was perfect called myself Devlin Cooper put a hatchet under the floorboards set the kitchen on fire so they’d think I was innocent no wait I don’t know I don’t remember how it happened I died she died no no one died we randaisies in her name --part 5
by ~streetlights-candles
daisies in her name --part 4I went looking for her last night she was in the park I heard it was her favorite place at night note on the table magnetized to the fridge like we used to do with my daughter’s paintings she liked crayons and watercolors I never got her watercolor crayons but she’d like them a lot she’s gone wish she was still here in the park I told Amanda that I was sorry I’d left her it’s been sixteen years since we divorced I regret it baby I still love you you have a beautiful voice don’t call me baby I told you I hate it baby baby baby we always fight she has a beautiful voice when she’s angry sometimes I provoked herdaisies in her name --part 4
by ~streetlights-candles
daisies in her name --part 3step. step. step. clomp. step. step. clomp. step. clomp. He’s following me. Still, he’s following. Breathing down my neck, scratching the skin off my scalp with his finger nubs. I can’t see anything but I still won’t close my eyes. Step. Step. He wants me dead. Obviously. Smash. He’s going to break my house into sixteen pieces and stab me with each one, call me a dead president and throw me off a bridge. And there’s nothing to do about it. Let go, at last. I’m not a ghost yet. But what if you were? &nbdaisies in her name --part 3
by ~streetlights-candles
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We should probably get used to it, but we don't.
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How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me.
Its like a book elegantly bound but in a language that you can't read, just yet.
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solipsism: the theory that only the self exists, or can be proved to exist.
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c'est le poison dans le flacon
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