Suburbia

Ride (Instrumental) – All music rights reserved by Lana Del Rey

My home is a graveyard in the heart of

the suburbs and we are buried in between the numbered houses

and the perfectly cut grass-sheets. It is so domestic, these picket fenced streets feel as if they are closing in on me, and I am

trapped because there is nothing domestic about me. I’ve prayed

to God, begging to stay young, free, and unaware. But the Lord’s prayer is beautiful and unfair and my cries were denied. Still, we survive by

getting high, can you blame us if we were raised with this

state of mind? We were never told it was wrong. We sing songs and

dance until dawn, we are suburban and we only play along because

we like to get noisy. We are chaotic, crazed, and flighty. Reckless, raving,

and unruly. We are suffocating and we are driven by the insane. The freeway

has become our getaway, an escape for all the runaways, a mirage of light

and sound and colour. My bones are raw and weak but the freeway speaks

to me: you are alive, you are alive. But still, I understand that, one day

we will all be dead and I will die lost, sloppy, and dirty if I am

buried, but shall I burn, my ashes should scatter all over

the city – I will be free to hate and

free to love.

Can you say the same about yourself? We came from suburbia and

all we want is euphoria, we just want

to be fucking

freed.

I can barely recognize myself,

I’m trash, baby.

3am conversations at the bar

Very briefly, I was with this guy. And, I still think of him, but I’ll never say nothing.

I was afraid to look at him. Oh boy, he seemed like a very sneaky, stealthy, sly fox in a big-city. And I realized we would never be together.

But, l would think about him.

Forever, probably.

I find God can be cruel that way. I believe that He watches over me and I know in my heart he is everywhere. He is the white lines, miles between, the solitude, desolation and fear. He respects my lust for freedom, how I can live in my best memories of him and never find a true way to escape it.

He said I was the sweetest,

I thought he was the coolest.

Oh boy, it was a funny game on repeat he liked to play. He was just one of those people. I mean, I barely knew him, but God,

I still fucking miss him.

plan b

fuck, it’s so warm.

the sweat, anger, and shame

of your hands around my wrist

and the fire between my thighs

you like that?

 

pull the trigger,

shoot me in the fucking head.

or,

i can burn this motherfucker.

She

My girl sniffs gunmetal

while she listens to heavy metal

on top of

rooftops and junk shops.

She smokes when she bathes,

believes her version of aromatherapy

is better.

Her legs in the water are pale and

flourescent, like lined lights sheltered by

snow frozen into hail,

but she likes it golden-brown and

whiskey-warm,

“like a 7-and-7,” maybe a whiskey

sour cocktail.

She pops one for her baby,

says, “we need to get high, boy

because someone like me,

I am to die for.”

We were rolling around when

she found ash in the drink and she drank it

when their voices were too loud

she shut them,

said, “this is not a church,

not a coterie,

it’s a stab.”

She screams because

it seems it is all she can

and will do,

so she doesn’t fight back.

Instead, she holds herself up above the concrete and

she straightens her back.

To her surprise, she found that she was

tall.

Still,

my lungs fill rather quickly with

vengeance and

I am weak, even after a week.

She is still growing

Sad girls steal

her covers at night

and paint her face

in the morning

so

she hides in cracks

and washes herself

in cups of

old coffee.

At first

I was afraid

because

she looked so much

like me

but as she bore her teeth

like knives

to those who have

watched her suffer

I saw in front of me

a survivor,

a fox footed fighter who

bore a fleeting resemblance

to the wild.

You have seen

the stains in my sheets

and the

marks along my skin

but the bones

in my body belong

only to her.

She is still growing

and she is mine.

Zohal

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When they ask why my floorboards are made of mahogany, rosewood, and ebony, I tell them it’s because the darkened tones remind me of her.

Dusky floors brush my bare skin every day, both faultless and at my most fragmented.

Unlike those who should have done you better, her toughened skin was never afraid to touch mine.

This is a lie, I am on the verge of tears

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My spine has found so many knives gorged into itself, I cannot make out the shape anymore. I am mad and yelling to some. Quiet to others. Cut throat to a few. Unknown and unrevealed to many. Who am I to me? I remember, I took a picture of my mother and studied the lines on her hands. She wore her hair down; face and nails, naked. Sometimes, her lips would flush red as if the boiled blood under her skin understood that no exit existed. In this particular photo, her lips were bludshot. She presented herself smart and simple. The truth, an undeniable fact. I noticed, even the lines in her hands were strong. I wonder, do they match the patterns of my own? Are these traces of my rage or my silence?

It’s strange, how some bodies of the human race seem to be constantly running away from their home, and others are bodies who are desperately in search of that exact, same place. Every night, I prayed I would make it back alive. “I have fooled myself into thinking I could stand in something sinking and, oh God, I have never felt so small and I am so scared to die.” To every prayer he would answer, “Child, when will you understand? For you, home will remain as a place you must always chase, you must find everything for yourself.”

Still, I cannot quite find who I am. But surely this time, I will not wander.

I still miss you, sometimes

I tried to burn it away in my muscles. Tried to rip them apart to prove that it would break in my hands. Tried to keep myself busy, tried to change it with my name, but I mostly tried to sleep it away. Change because it made me violent and vulgar. Made me drink, down the throat and out my eyes. I washed his beautiful hands and I can’t remember, was he my lover or my oppressor? When did we start moving in opposite directions? Your flawed views reflect on my metal eyes and I know better this time: look around but do not touch anything. Like it didn’t exist, that is how we’re supposed to be.

Luna

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I am a different person to different people, but with you, it’s quite opposite. Like my favourite sunset, I dip under billions and disappear in the dark. Or, maybe I have settled and slept because my moon is watching. She holds me so tight, the art comes oozing out. And as these stars fall onto our world, I can’t help but stare into their shine. The world does not deserve to see her creativity, but oh God, does it need to.

Stephanie

First, I noticed her laugh and the comfort I found in something so loud. And although her laughter was beautiful, her true brilliance came forward as she came towards me. With every step, she stained the floors with pools of herself. How, I wonder, after you drained the colours from your own, can one still dazzle? “I do not dazzle,” she answered, “rather, I am dull, soft, and aching. Please do not rush me.” Darling, I find you very special. Where you find soft, I begin to find soul and your ache has created a pulse. I insist, climb inside and revel at your brilliance with me because you are not dull. Truly I find you quite radiant, take all the time you need.