do you see omar’s face? lol

The Queen

everytime it gets close to October i start reblogging the fuck out of this

And I said, ‘Blood, finally’ but not to you. I think I want it over.

   You get your hand around my neck

      I don’t protest

It is not new new, I expect whatever I was carved from you were carved from also,

     that I was born with your fingernails stuck into my vital organs and since then you’ve kind of 


                                         been choking me to death.

            I’m vaguely aware you are probably trying to kill me again but I can’t stop thinking about how the arch of your palm fits like a mould across the cartilages of my throat and now I’m thinking

           five fingers and nine cartilages that’s fourteen I wonder if that

                                                                          means something.

                        You’re pulling your thumb across my jawline like you love me so tenderly but your pointer finger is pressed down on my pulse- a button, and you’re trying to turn me off. Thanks. At least 

         our feelings for each other are somewhat mutual.

                             And the skin on your hand feels so much like a rope

         I wonder if it is rope. I wonder if the whole nature of matter has broken down in the two minutes you’ve been holding on to me because I feel you 


                                                                                  physically all over me.

      Or maybe my skin is the rope or maybe I am the rope or maybe my skin is actually your skin and my body was just shoved into it and you’ve always been all over me and I’ve always 

              belonged to you.

Well. There was never any getting out of this.

             I try to unhinge my jaw but you have me like a handbrake, like a jail in full lockdown and it’s so quiet I can hear your tongue move off the roof of your mouth as you lean in to me-

                                          And I’m scared of your teeth. I’m scared of your bitten down nails and your                                blistered hands

           You treat your body like a machine (so it doesn’t have to belong to you), but right now your body is a machine gun, or some sort of heavy artillery, and it’s aimed at me and your ear is rubbing against my ear and then you are 


            and I’m not getting bullets but I’m still getting torn to shreds. You whisper little death threats, something about love, but you whisper it as something physical- no not physical- air, smoke, gas

                           this is a state prison gas chamber, everything translucent green, your hands like metal, laced with barbed wire, locking me in, 

         strapping me down.

              And you’ve pressed your chin into my jawline and you’re whispering death into my ears and it’s poison poison

                      This is the part in the film where you shove a sword up my back or a hunting knife into my side and you sort of throw me onto the ground as I die like

                    Good. Dead. 

          but you miss the cue and they can’t cut to the better story line with the girl in the river. Good one.

                      My problem is you never kill me off.

You just keep your hand around my jaw and you tell me all about how you’re going to kill me so why don’t you ever just do it?

                  I don’t die and you don’t die and no one moves and I can’t go anywhere and I’m not dead but I’m getting so bored of being almost dead all of the time. 

      So you say nothing and neither do I and no one moves and god this is going to be such a terrible film, us just standing here interlocked like a sculpture but with chests

       heaving and your knife at my back

       ready for go time but there’s no one to start the scene and you and I 

                                 could never make this happen on our own. 



"There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you.
I touch myself, I dream.
Wearing your clothes or standing in the shower for over an hour, pretending
that this skin is your skin, these hands your hands,
these shins, these soapy flanks.
The musicians start the overture while I hide behind the microphone,
trying to match the dubbing
to the big lips shining down from the screen.
We’re filming the movie called Planet of Love-
there’s sex of course, and ballroom dancing,
fancy clothes and waterlilies in the pond, and half the night you’re
a dependable chap, mounting the stairs in lamplight to the bath, but then
the too white teeth all night,
all over the American sky, too much to bear, this constant fingering,
your hands a river gesture, the birds in flight, the birds still singing
outside the greasy window, in the trees.
There’s a part in the movie
where you can see right through the acting,
where you can tell that I’m about to burst into tears,
right before I burst into tears
and flee to the slimy moonlit riverbed
canopied with devastated clouds.
We’re shouting the scene where
I swallow your heart and you make me
spit it up again. I swallow your heart and it crawls
right out of my mouth.
You swallow my heart and flee, but I want it back now, baby. I want it back.
Lying on the sofa with my eyes closed, I didn’t want to see it this way,
everything eating everything in the end.
We know how the light works,
we know where the sound is coming from.
Verse. Chorus. Verse.
I’m sorry. We know how it works. The world is no longer mysterious.”