"Love Is Not A Victory March."

"maybe it's destruction aesthetics buti can't help myself.there's just something beautiful in the way that all walls fall down orget knocked over when we don't need the shelter anymore.how all rooms change color with the shifting of the scenery andabsolutely nothing ever stays the same it was.the snow melts. the smoke dissolves. the sun dances only to drown into a landscape that never stops shooting upward. and whole mountains break and topple like warriors as the surface of the world sinks into the ocean. but
listen: i walked past your house last night.just to look inside and see how things had changed.just to see if i'd be angry at the way they'd torn that wall down orhow they'd covered our footsteps with carpet andmade everything a brand new color.just to see if there was something pretty in the wreckage. something shining like the truth we built from old wounds when we looked back on our scars and said, "I'm okay now."just to see if i was still alive in some way in some form that lit the world around me on fire and pushed our impermanence out of the window of a building a thousand storys high.just so i could look back on now and on yesterday and on every single day since you left and say,"I'm okay now."
but i didn't feel a thing.
i just lit another cigarette and tipped my hat to the mighty treesknowing one day they'd fall apart like everything elseand i can just blame it all on the shifting of the scenery.watching life dance and drown like the stars and let the roman mountains sink softly, violentlyback into the earth that birthed them.
because lately,everythings a cigarette. just lit one momentto never stop burning until somebody sometime decides to throw it down or just let it burn until there's nothing left to eat.and it just gives in.and i'm just giving in.
because when you've got so much riding on one thing and one day for no reason something or someone or nothing at all decides you can't have that one thing anymore and rips it away without warning or justificationyou don't have a thing to fall back on.
all you can do is tip your hat to the trees, paint the walls you haven't torn down yet, push your cigarette back into the earth and say,
"i'm okay now."____
What arms you’ve left let be laid down Pathetically. like the moments spent reaching Out for our dreams and our hopes and our arms weren’t half the length We needed. So we laid down effort in a casket of inadequacy And paid homage to a time where things seemed obtainable. Times where we would have been content to call the kids kings And the enemies irrelevant. Wielding our weapons in signs that said: “Fuck off! My words are sufficient! I can describe the way I feel without Crying or breaking down doors with an angry foot or sounding cliché or something like childish or--” Don’t call me pathetic! I am a hero here!
But I gave those signs to someone who gave me their razors in the hallway at break. And told me that nowadays they lived without fearing themselves for the first time in their lives. But I gave those signs to someone who couldn’t tell the difference between love and getting fucked over and over again until she was shown the way it feels to be respected. But I gave those signs to my mother without money and my little brother with his first broken heart and I gave my signs to my best friends with alcohol and cigarettes until my own little protest against life’s random disdain for humanity became my own little lack of light. And I had no concrete reason to stand in front of it’s double doors and it’s rich, brick façade and wave my fists in rejection anymore. Until I screamed “Oh, call me pathetic at least, you harlots! I have no home but here and I’m all worn out from fighting and helping fight! You’ve won! You’ve won! Now let go of me!”
And when I reached out for money life gave me nothing but a smile. And the ones I’d left were nowhere to be found and nowhere to be heard. I tell myself everyday that I can live without fearing myself but my mind keeps changing.
Please grant me the strength._____
The boy was talking at about the same pace as his footsteps, and with similar results. There was a girl on the other end, obviously. But she wasn’t doing much talking, at least not tonight. She just lay in her bed a million miles away and listened--hard, God knows why, to every little thing he said and didn’t say. “It’s just stupid, you know? People in my world…in our world…they don’t talk about things like that, not anymore…not about God or religion or purpose or anything even close to that. I want to make it happen again.” He cringed slightly, fumbling constantly for words to do thoughts justice and not sound arrogant. “For once somebody should just go out and confront it, I mean…just kick it in the teeth.” He waited for her to respond, knowing she wasn’t going to. “I read somewhere…I can’t remember where…Camus or something--it said what makes us human is rebellion. Not like stupid rebellion or anything political…but, we realize eventually that things are messed up, and we fight that…not to fix it, I don’t think…but to be happy. I want to be happy.” Another pause, he collected himself. “…I want to be human. And I don’t think people are human until they fight things…you know?“ He breathed out deep for the first time. “I’m sorry, I talk too much.”"