Bloodletting

3 chances
3 years of this
3 phases
2 feel or not 2 feel
Mind back 2 body
2 Pain tolerant
2 more minutes
2 more lines
1 more time

//"MNT-VW-TWR-RM419"//

I'm leaving this place
Like I'm never coming back
The mountains are calling
My epoch is a chapter in a book
Reaching to the outro
Or the intro?
All I know is I need to be alone in the mountains
Leaving the tower for some headspace and a fire
Literally nothing else matters
Except that I leave my phone and walk straight up the mountain
Straight up
I need to dig myself out of my life somehow
Straight up

Would you take my breath away?

When you climb my tree will you see my name carved there?
When you hike my hills will you hear my echoes?
When you hear them strum will you hear my fingers?
Do you miss me?
Do I make you cry?
When you see them wearing my clothes will you see me?
My notebooks wont let you forget me will they?
Will they call to you from a box in the basement?
Will the videos of me do me justice?
Will you see me in my brothers?
Will you move on?
Will this blog haunt you forever?
When that song comes on will you think of me?
Will you turn it off?
Will you see me in my father?
Could you see me in heaven?
Will you smell me in the mountains?
Will you hear me crackling in the campfire?
Will you sit where we sat?
Will you say my name again?
Or utter softly when you want me?
Will you smile when you hear my jokes?
Will you taste my cocoa?
Will you want to?
Will you see me up in the juniper tree?
Will you crush the berries in your hand?
Will you hurt yourself on that day?
Would you hurt me on that day?
When you visit my stone will you see me through the grass?
Will you look through the grass?
As if I didnt want this anyways?

Fourth of July

I should have known better
Yesterday they feared of it
Tomorrow they will first hear of it
The next they will tear for it
The next, they will steer clear of it
and I'll be forgotten

Not like it matters anyways

Keep your eyes down.

She picked up the apple from the dirt.

Putrid and mold ridden she bid of me to eat.

I stood there in the february wind like I had never seen these hills before.

I had seen these hills before--six hundred miles of these hills.

The air was the same as I'd left it and the apple just as rotten, and we stood there till I reached for the apple.

When the apple met my lips I was confused again,  crossed again, and lost again.

I cast that apple to the dirt a month ago, only to let it rot more before I would pick it up again.

I tried to leave the apple in the dirt.

.....

So I went back to where i'd grown up.

To taste the rotten fruit I'd left behind me.

To my lips it tasted like cider for a moment.

Cider that once greeted a finer vintage.

Cider that would strip me of my mind.

Cider that would keep me in this valley, underneath the dirt and worms and stone.

Cider that tasted like my putrid, mold ridden past.

Cider that tasted delicious to my dying lips.

Dying lips that once sang of a girl with hair as sweet as clemantine.

Dying lips that would never utter help again.

These dying lips.

These dying hands.

These dying eyes.

Better off dead than dying.