dexwritesthings

This is just the end of everything I thought I knew: Headlights in thunderstorms and War All the Time in the back of the car; all those times I couldn't think of what I should do with my hands. So by all means,  make this more uncomfortable for us both. I spent that whole year bleeding out in your bed so I wouldn't have to go back home. That was the turning point. That was when everything started slipping out of control. We wanted to set fires. We wanted to be set free. We wanted self-destruction, suicide, without ever having to die. Well. You know. There's so much I can't remember. Like:  When was it that I walked away  from one or another childhood game, not knowing it was the last time I'd play? There are a lot of ways, infinite ways, to fail to describe a feeling. So I gave you The Weakerthans and you gave me Dashboard Confessional. It seemed like a fair trade at the time but lately I'd j

I had a dream that you found out I wasn't dead and you weren't angry anymore. I did it for you, anyway -  like that time we got high in your backyard while your mother went shopping and your brother played on the swings. You told me once that the truth isn't always factual and I think I understand it now; it has something to do with how you can never define what you're feeling but those nights you could see your breath, a car crash in red and black and chrome, the edge at your fingers until you're coloring red on your skin, makes you feel it all again anyway. The song that played Russian roulette with my confidence every time you called; I lost, but -  were we supposed to be keeping score? The truth is we were haunted already, falling asleep drunk at sunrise in the house with the dead girl's room upstairs -  but that comes later. For now I'm just sorry about the blood on my clothes, about the fingerprints bruised on the side of your n

I contrive words to describe an illiterate arc of thought, confined to arbitrary meanings till the illustration's lost. Exercise expression through abandoned buildings, vacant lots; I'd revise my own admissions but this apathy has costs. Every empty instinct waits for civil sanity to rot and these distinctive traits are drivel vanity concocts. Written keys unlock the fugue, compulsion's sleeper cell, and terrorize this mind set right, made impulsively unwell. Set alight, or set to die, in a mental basement room; I'd prefer the lies before i'm dealt disjointed hints of truth handed out by self-appointed arbiters who muse on passing time and bleak insight, superiority assumed. when I've discarded viral drives felt vital to my self and mind; rewarded liars left entitled, kept what destiny assigns; I'll edge and struggle forward toward decay that feels like home, and slowly disassemble, disarray discarded blood and bone. In time divided infinite

I've seen a million sketching time in empty rooms that stretch the night to abscessed wounds and textured lines and cracks in walls that search and climb a structured track. Synaptic sparks strut and tour a path that starts with lust for more than lasts or parts and ends with words that fast depart. Confined obsessions stir to rise and leave coherent thoughts consigned to languish in subconscious minds with perfect murders: Yours or mine?

It's morning and cold. It's raining beyond the awning but I'm sweating and the sweat just makes it colder. I'm waiting on the car and I'm not thinking ahead, or if I am, I'm  convincing myself it'll all work out. There are enough times it doesn't, but there are always new solutions, old recycled solutions, solutions cobbled from half-thoughts and fever dreams, different perspectives on solutions that have failed. As if you can shape the future through sheer force of will. Turns out you can; I've been doing it for years. The trick is  not to leave yourself any other option. So it gets stifling. You  feel boxed in. You'd like to harness all that energy, let it command you to other things, but that's a decision for tomorrow. That's effort for another day, and you're always pretty sure you'll have another day. You aren't them. Four times in one year, but you don't feel like o

Slate sky cracks fire, nightfall always kidnaps dusk. The faithful lack their liars but we're all just blood and dust. Wait awhile, find time conspires with us to constrain us. Rank and file mind the wire with a minimum of fuss. Rank and vile, uninspired, slaves to love and lust. Walk the miles, overtired, to make the insane cut. Talking smiles in empty faces, sounds that crowd my ears. Rising bile, senses fading; I'd learn to drown my fears. A padlocked gate, a dark mindscape; words just interfere. A sandbox fate, a spark of hate, and a conscience, clear. These last few days begin to stray to what the future has in store. Iconoclast of moments past and a cynicism ill-informed. I can't relate, associate; this prism glass reflects, distorts. Imprisoned concepts congregate in a memory of sorts. A way to fall and how to find the wrong in evened scores, and how long it's been since I've belonged or fast tried to conform. A life so small in time so long

You live like you think someone's always watching, and who knows - maybe they are. Or, maybe, you're just a little bit paranoid, maybe you've got a guilty conscience. Well. Definitely that. Midnight, mid-June, and I was driving with the windows down. I couldn't hear you with the music up loud when I pulled into the drive. We were kids then, Converse and bare feet and you choking out words like the noise of all our thoughts made it hard to breathe, and you, listening to that same sad song over and over again. I'll remember it that way; I choose to. But now it's tomorrow again and we can't take back all the things we'll do today. So make it last or  at least make it count -  every second,  everything you do has to mean more  than the knowledge that it ends and all the ways it can. So we stay desperate, the time slipping away with every song on the

It's just another place to live where the sound of the rain outside makes you feel hopeless and you have to tell yourself that waking up isn't the worst thing that could happen. Every second strains under the weight of not remembering -  the smell of Newports and exhaust in a car on a summer day, how you love and hate the sunrise at exactly the same time, all those empty intersections whispering like ghosts, and the dead who haunt your lists of calls you didn't take. Everything inside you feels misplaced. Someone's always rearranging the layout of your heart until you can't remember how you got those scars. So you're spending your nights digging through those boxes labeled Misery and hoping you'll find something else inside, because the only thing you want is to sell or trade your past mistakes, and for something to be different i n you this time.