birdmad all the broken bits and pieces that drift to the ground like feathers and ash, that clatter to the floor like splinters and glass, the broken candles, the empty liquor bottles, the letters written and never sent, the razorblades, the missing keys, the tiny specks of the universe that ride the sunbeams and make them visible in this dim apartment.

dust is comprised largely of dead particles of ourselves

we fall to dust even before we die.
Maybe one day i will be able to sweep myself under the rug and pretend that i'm not here.
the madness of birds throw me away 000712
a mask How do you organize thoughts when they are spread like debris from the ocean over a thousand miles, and you can't seperate the thoughts from the sand? My mind is a beach. The thoughts arrive on the fronts of waves. Unfortunately the smooth motion is destroyed by the rocks of rationality...

Look at my cold, dead corpse drowned underneathe the sea.
jane "i hate that word, debris," he said.
"duh briss," i said.
"yeah." he said.
"i wonder where that word comes from," i said.
"maybe it comes from detriment," he said.
"no, i mean the latin etymology." i said. "de - & then whatever bris means."
"construction." he said.
"structure." i said.
while roses wince picks it up a scream out no

too late

splintered broken blood lines running across the mahogany floorboards oh mother won't be happy with the stains she never appreciated scarlet even when it blossoms over palms wrists necks

tinkle glass shatters your heart cracks the shards piercing the sides of your stomach until it all falls out

look at this
what's it to you?
who go