I’m nothing but ink
I’m bleached pulp dyed blue and red
Recyclable

I always pass the blame
but, really, it was eve
to eat the fruit, not me.
I do not lead into
temptation, you find it
and say it was my fault
for not keeping you safe.
It's kind of nice to know
that evil is somewhere
and you can find it
but you don't have to look!
So think, there was freedom
east of eden, so thank
eve not me, she freed you.

Beast!
You glom at the ****
of nurture, of support and success
and claim it had nothing to do
with becoming man.

Bring yourself to legs.
Teach yourself to walk.
Blame the mother for shedding
scales and limbs
not for muscles and sinew and warmth.

(alternate title: in which i reference three things)

there is snow general
all over Ireland

and that's all I know
about Ireland

except that it rarely snows
all over Ireland

so that's what makes the

holiday special

clear white gleam so we
can have epiphanies
and during these epiphanies

we realize sacrifice passion love
is better than things
we can control

I stand at the edge of the world
My hands are callous and I am alone
We promised this is where we would meet
When the earth met its end
All of the corpses and burnt crumbled buildings
Are leading you to me
Because we said we’d come here
When the world is over
And all are dead and gone
We’d be the only ones
No more worries and no more thoughts
So I destroyed the earth to bring you home
To bring you here
But you forgot
So here
I stand at the edge of the world
My hands are callous

And I am alone.

Our hands are intertwined
and the world is being
destroyed before us.

Laced hands, lace-
delicate and beautiful.
We are delicate and
beautiful and delicate
and beautiful people are annihilating
this delicate and beautiful
earth.
love is
as powerful as bombs
but love would never
destroy.

and if I ever eat your flesh
know it is because I liked you best.

If I ever sell your soul
yes, you know it's because I loved you most.

But a kid's got to live
and in this world of sin
might as well harvest the living
ones we love.

I could drown in your kiss.
But maybe drown is the wrong word.
The word “drown” makes my lungs feel constricted.
It makes my skin feel pressured.
It kicks in my survival instincts.

I could live in your kiss.
It is like breathing, but better.
It is like I am floating aimlessly in space and your lips are my spacesuit,
sustaining my life for another orbit.

Your hands grab my hips and pull them closer to you.
I want to gasp but my mouth is preoccupied,
as you can tell.
I am lost in your body, in your tongue, in your hands.
I am never to be found.

This is what it feels like after one drowns.
A beautiful abyss.

I long to feel your childish, unseductive touch.

The feeling of your disinterest in a state of arousal is that of a crime scene.
You investigate me with cold, unfeeling eyes
and your hands are all the worse.

The music you insist on playing is unsensual
and distracting
but you say it gives you something to do
while you’re ******* me.

Your youthful face does not even contort in pleasure,
my name never passes your lips,
yet I need more of you.

I try not to finish in your allotted time period
so I can keep you close
for as long as possible.

But your lack of eroticism gets to me
and I explode.
You dress and leave
without so much as a “good-bye.”

Maybe next time you will smile.

I wish, I wish upon a star
That I could count the stars
But the universe ends too far
and I am far too small
to ever be regarded by a star
But still, I try.
Endless nights
staring up at those faraway lights.
Each one I count and mark
though the tallies are hidden in the dark.
I wish, I wish upon a star.

the calm and the clear
and the soft skin
the sun shining through the curtains
highlighting exposed skin
eyes still closed
held in embrace
slow hands across one's back
lightly
as if made of ceramic
a deep breath
heaving chest
exhale

Perhaps, in fear,
I had let go-
I could not forever wander.
I could not see
the ending road,
so my mind did wonder.

What fantasies do lie ahead?
What nightmares lurk in darkness?
So I turned home instead,
as uncertainty held no interest.

I want to
punch.

Punch windows
and walls.

Bleed everywhere.

And call it art.

A tribute
of my love.
An unrequited throne
of my insides.

Then he can burn it
like he burns
everything I feel.

And the ashes
would be more beautiful
than what I made
because he did it.

I was young
and you gave me words
and thoughts
and entertaining plots.
I spent so much time
looking at the way you write
and looking at the way you phrase
and wishing I could do the same.

Now I have my own phrases
and plots
and thoughts.
All because you planted want.

Throw away the keys
Lock the door, please let me be
Trapped inside my mind

Your abuse to me
is now slowly killing me.
Only scream so loud.

Warm-blooded lover
Hold me close, please don't let go.
Our night is so cold.

He was just so young.
His life as short as his death.
Eternal bed rest.

Pillars of nonsense
giggling dim corridors
the laughter is cheap

Intricate roses
fading burgundy and red
Dry out over time

Imagination
Thoughts and dreams cannot be real.
Well, imagine that!

An attempt haiku.
Though easy, they are quite plain
pen and paper molds.

Pavlov

You rang a bell

and fed him food

until you could ring a bell

and make him drool

but did you

ever really

love

man’s best friend?

There is a drizzle.

It is cold.

Cold wet splashes

of cold wet water.

Not enough to get you wet

so why even bother

with an umbrella?

Because the drops,

though small,

are great in number

and cold.

Well.

Tears

are large

and warm.

But my heart

is broken

in small

numerous

cold pieces.

This is not loneliness.
This is alone.

This is solitary solitude
Singular and redundant.

It is not sad
nor is it content.
This just is.

It is the ability to talk
but never say.
The ability to touch
but not feel.

This is not anything bad.
This just is.

It will be like a whisper
of something familiar.
But you can never put your finger on it,
if it has been heard before
or correctly.

Over time, it will be wished
that it was written by yourself
because those words, profound and secret,
they feel so real.
You want them to burn into your skin,
but they’ve already burned unto my tongue.

You’ll want to touch the screen
as if it were me
and ask
how I can do this
to you,
to me.
Ask how I can breathe
how I can think
when this is mine
when it should be the world’s.

I will apologize
all nice and polite.
I will selfishly hide
my little thoughts.

These panes of glass,

they’re broken and

stained

with the blood of our brothers.

The ones who have fallen into

the depths of temptation.

I intend to join them.

I am the instigator.

I ruin things. I ruin everything.
"Some people just want to watch the world burn." Well,
I am the fire-starter.
Sit back and enjoy the art
this burning world
I made.
I tore it to the ground.
And just like that-
up in flames.

And out of these ruins
comes something beautiful,
like a phoenix.
A fresh start.
Beauty born from ugliness.
I never knew this
would happen
when I struck the match.
It was just luck.

There is hope
for the broken
to be fixed.
The regretful
to redeem.

I was shown
I can be a better person
with sulfur.

It was all a mistake.
It's always a mistake.


But from those mistakes
is fashioned a lesson
a learning
a new beginning.

I am better
than the last me.

There are canyons in my arms.
You don’t see them very well right now because they are old and filled with dark tissue.

But I remember when they were fresh and new.

The river ran red and dripped drop drip.

Look at how the canyon goes all the way down.
It has branches.
They sting like hell.

But it feels worth it.

Wake up to white.
White yells and screams.
White questions,
white answers.
Sterile lies.
The canyons are covered by white.

Now they are gone.

Only a shadow remains.