"I wish I wrote the way I thought
With maddening hunger
I’d write to the point of suffocation
I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns
Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing
And I’d write about you
a lot more
than I should"
— Benedict Smith, “I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought”
"It takes great concentration to remain myself: I keep drifting off."
"I want to flower loudly. I want shameless pinks and golds. Whitman sounded his barbaric yawp
over the roofs of the world. I want to sound mine."
Burn all of your bridges
just so that you can build them again
with thicker ropes.
Hurt all the people you love
and then commit every felony to win them back.
Drown yourself in bleach until not even Heaven’s light
can compare to how bright you can burn.
Turn yourself inside out
and paint your organs the color of what you see
in your dreams.
This is the art of
living with a ticking heart — a grenade you
throw through windows to make a
point that language
has no room for.
This is how I destroyed you. And this, is how
I kept you alive.
Dig yourself a ditch, six
feet deep, and bury everything that you’ve ever
said, everything that you’ve never
meant, and everything that has
burned you and left you with nothing
— Shinji Moon, “Advice From Dionysus”
"The world has grown dark like a slow spreading stain. The clouds soak up the night and the stars gather the light of the city. I ran through a forest and lost my footsteps in the cries of newborn animals. Today I washed my socks and stood on my tiptoes to let them dry in the sun. My legs are burned. They are not soft. If you touch my hands you will feel the end of me. The days are wearing my nails down. My wrists ache and my ankles creak as I step into and step out of the shower. The water is always cold these days. I leave when it all gets too much to bear. I leave when the windows yawn and the linoleum curls up on itself. I have the honour of writing my name in my own sweat, in the impermanence of the pavement. Someone will step on me because they will not watch."