Sorry for the blood on your shirt. Whose is it again?

on my birthday there were dust storms sweeping the skies and fire adorning my state like hell’s jewels, bright burning gifts sucking the oxygen from the sky. 

Maybe it was an omen. 

I was born on a Wednesday. “Full of woe” seems to make a whole lot of sense. A life full of bad luck and trouble. Lapping up the warmth from people’s footsteps like a hyena dying of thirst. Desperate. My anger is true blue. In my wake I leave storms strong enough to wash away all that know me, my love breeds/feeds fires tall enough to burn a city down all in a night. Eyes stormy but like burning embers. I see right through all the wrong people. Judgement clouds all the people that want the best for me and the path to my destruction is as clear as day. A pair of shiny eyes that give off enough fake sincerity to make Jafar proud. A warm hand that is so hot it starts to burn you. A closed book that rips out your pages with its teeth. I save all my strongest storms for you. The tips of my fingers ache from the need to graze my hands along a face of any kind, the need to feel concrete, ice, hot coals, skin. All it feels is the cool glass of a bottle, all my lips feel is a familiar foam, a familiar bubble. 

Too loving/(cowardly) to call the exterminator but angry enough to break your arm on a bad bet. 

Maybe acting like this, pretending I really have it in me to do anything to anyone who breaks me other than say sorry for breathing is how I cope with being one of the most emotional fuck ups i know. Maybe saying that is trying to convince people I’m not as bad as I say I am.

You sat on the phone with me near every night until you realised I couldn’t hide how I felt around you. Sorry for my silence being so inconvenient. Sorry that my screams are worse. I was trying to destroy my heart, trying to set fire to something again and struggling. All I got was singed synapses. How long until your impulses drown you? How long until the dreams you had are fully drowned out? How long until you realise you hurt the person that truly wanted you to succeed, as odd as that could sound. How long until you realise what you’re giving up?

How long until this cursed Wednesday’s sun sets?

Soon my lungs will be black from the smoke and you’ll laugh, laugh at me for being worried about you

Soon I’ll lose myself in a haze again and not come back.

How long until I wrap my car around a tree?

The fires are being snuffed out. My dad calls me, too late in the day to wake me up he thinks, surprised every time. Tells me to watch out for the weather. “Disastrous”. No more than a pitiful drizzle. 

It’s embarrassing when these days you can’t even manage to blow over a flower. No more wind from your mouth. Only dust and smoke. November freezes over.