We had a color you and I.
You were a tantalizing white, vibrant yet subtle. You had the power to magnify everything because of that silent manifestation you comprise when a drop of any other shade was splattered on you, making it incredibly vivid. You were what poets used as muse for there was nothing purer than the flawless white of that glorious spirit yet you were neither dumbfounded nor disappointed by it.


I was a disaster-prone black, ill-fated yet beautiful. I made the light seem brighter, more picturesque; a comparison for better accomplishment. I came out at night to walk the terrors of the hours of darkness, untouched because of this gloomy soul. I was what the holly book prohibits to touch, to indulge all sensations because to drink from me was to imbibe a gallon of sin.


Sadly, beauty and unpleasant have a curious way of finding each other. I don’t remember which of us found the other first; if it was I who saw you shine from miles away or if it was you who found me huddled in a corner.


We were gods you and I. we created a love that transversed worlds. We shamed Orpheus and Eurydice. We disgraced Torin and Keelycael. There was nothing more powerful than the passion we twisted and at the same time nothing was more potent. We came from different places, you from the havens and I from the shallow depths of hell; and everything we made became a freak of nature.   


 We created the color gray.


We created the color gray from our undefeated essences. We made an unremarkable and unloved color from our insurmountable selves for the reason that we were too prideful to give up each other and at the same time ourselves. We made an abhorred thing because we were never meant for each other.


I realized when I saw you walk away, that last dreadful night, the white in you was somewhat fazed and I looked in the mirror that same night to see the darkness in me leaking. There was a little bit of gray in both of us. That was when I realized we stole pieces of each other.


Yes, my love, we made a color gray.

Time is a mysterious thing. One we think too little or too much about as if it was either an extraneous concept or a recognizable one but never simply an acquaintance. We fear to gaze in to its dark eyes for fear of what we’ll see in its untamed structure. Perhaps we fear the absolute freedoms of it in how all its courses are never underlined by incongruous moments such as once that hunt our very existence. Or maybe we’re jealous of how youthful it stays while we slowly deteriorate to our graves as it watches with indifference.


I wish to give time a gender so it fulfils all my assumptions of it. Perhaps it’s a women, gentle and eloquent; with a heart that grounds the most feral of things. Her touch is knowledge and wisdom but also all things unknown. She is sculpted like the goddess praised while her love burns oceans from existence yet she watches alone from a distance quite unreachable. Lonely everlasting. Nonetheless her soul is cruel and unforgiving; her betrayal unexpected. Her expectations to high that even the most eligible of men would not dare attempt such a futile conquest for to even try would be to fail. However her compulsion is too powerful to disregard so no man sits ideal.


Perhaps it’s a man with a will that is ironclad. His grips too powerful for even the greatest of empires to resist so all chose to bend for fear of breaking. He rules like he makes love, with intensity that shatters all the women underneath him but they still come back for more for his touch, his magic stroke. Non who have been touched by him have ever resisted or those who have were swallowed by the tide that was his fury. Yet his heart is gold and he cares more than he expects as his gifts last eternity and from the sweetness of it,  just a moment.

I feel like summer,
Like sunlight and humidity,
A delight but also a force to be recond with
Capable of reviving your wilted soul
But still etherial
Ghostly.
I feel like winter
Chilling to the bone
Unwanted
Misunderstood yet packed with potential.
My moods are of the fall,
Gloomy
But if you look closer,
Much closer
you might find beauty in my colors
In the sunset orange
In the faded green
Around my cracked edges.
I feel like spring,
Touched with new beginnings
A part of the equinox
Of mysterious and outerworldy things
A fraction of the universe.  
I feel like the distant waves
Overflowing with ups and downs
Unstable
Yet exciting
Wanting and calling
Seducing
I feel like the kiss you left on my cheeks,
Immortal.

Describe it to me; that perfect moment, when the sun peeked out of the horizon and you were standing there, up on the hill, waiting for her to emmerge.

Describe it to me; that dazzling day, when you held on to the very end of your sanity, rocking it in to the burial ground you had been digging for years.

Describe it to me; that cold winter day when the river was full and the tide strong, and you decide it was a good day for a swim.

Describe it to me; that quite evening, right after the sun set you sat through, you saw a cluster of fireflies and they glowed like the world was a good place.

Describe it to me; that fatal day when you went out to your garden and the flowers didn’t look pretty anymore so you took the gasoline and a match, and watched the inferno swallow your lives work.

Describe it to me; that hectic weekend when you fell in love twice in two days and you couldn’t believe your heart was big enough to accommodate such strong emotions. You felt dizzy and nauseated but also suspended far away from gravity like a rollercoaster ride on the moon.

Describe it to me; that never ending month where your only companies were the blanket you loved and the music that stacked your phone. You felt lost as if all roads were interminable maize’s that you were tired of going in circles in.

Describe it to me; that quite night, you first tasted the lips of a cigarette and you held it between your own squeezing ever so gently. You sighed sensing the choice in your hands, whether or not you decided to die from this magnificent sin were yours and yours alone and you smiled crookedly as the match found its peak.

Describe it to me; that well played afternoon where you were only twelve and you were with her, your first love even before you were acquainted with the very concept of love and she told you to close your eyes. You felt it, that first pressure against your lips and you never remembered why your eyes stayed close but you assume it was to preserve that instant for eternity.

Describe it to me; that wet morning as you stood away from the moderately assembled crowed and you watched as they slowly descended your heart in a casket with her still holding it and you could never forgot the deafening silence that followed the crash of sand atop her as if it was the instant you went deaf to the world. Tears never left your eyes because there was nothing left to cry for.


Describe it all to me as if I was never there to witness it.

"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned."
She whispered
What she meant though
Was 'curb the arrogance in me
So I may lay down my questions
And bury my assumptions'
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned"
She murmured
Even though the storm in her
Screamed 'stab the place in my head
Where my doubt imerges
And the spark in my heart
That hates to love the world'
'Restrain my hands
And break my fingers
For they will never seize
From creating blasphemy'
"Bless me,  Father, for I have sinned"
She thought it this time
While her lips said
'Forgive my mind
That lies to itself
And tricks its existance
With half truths
It won't believe
You'll see'
"Bless me,  Father,  for I have sinned"
She tapped the side of the wood
Mimicking the last song she drunk
Before hiding in the confessional
A last secret sin
She let herself indulge
"Bless me"
"Bless me"
She hiccuped
"Father"
Hiccups
"For"
Hiccups
"I have"
Hiccups
"Sinned"
She smiled
And walked out of the confessional
With her music filling her ears
Her lips singing away
To her hearts desires.

I went on a walk today. My feet led me to a place past the horizon where light and darkness where at a simple harmony. They coexisted in a way I hadn’t learned to do with myself, with an ease that made me envious.

I went on a walk today and my chest felt heavy for my legs to carry. It was suspended past the dome of my ribs, inflated to a point of discomfort so I crossed my arms atop it just to hold it in place for fear it would explode at any moment. My tears fought for release and I tried to convince them it was not I holding them captive but my heart, this cave made of snow beating icicles in to my veins.

I went on a walk today and I felt neither the cold nor the warmth of the consecutive hours. It simply swooshed past me without a second glance. I watched it leave with awe wondering if my ghost status had inverted to official that even ethereal beings would not acknowledge me.

I went on a walk today and saw a flock of birds and saw one seating on the phone wire away from its group. I stared at it and felt its eyes on me, and for a moment their was an instant familiarity. That was the moment I realized loneliness was a language, only few could understand but still, a language.

'How to apply eye shadow' the title of the video said.  I looked at it with bewilderment, amazed at myself for finally resorting to this.  I was to dress well today. I was to look pretty for people so when they'd look at me,  they'd miss the dark circles that lined my eyes like a clingy lover.
I was to hide all the diprived part of my face from luck of proper supplement with foundation that resembled my skin.
I was to conceal the acne that started appearing a couple of weeks ago with a powder I didn't quite recognize. 
I was to decorate my eyes with eyeliner and mascara, my eyelashes curled way past their normal size, to hide how puffy they were from the night spent in tears.
I was to brush my eyebrows for they'd lose their shape each time I rubbed my eyes to  hold off the pending emotional storm.
I was too put blush on my sleep deprived face so i'd have an illusion of being lively.
Then i'd pick up the bright red lipstick and draw precise lines on my puffy lips,  making them glow with a ferver I never felt.
I would look at myself then, make up hiding every inch of the parts people would see and it would amaze me how even the well done mask could never truely hide the ache that shattered my soul. 
I start to walk out, then stop to look back at myself.
"You forgot something," I say then pick my smile up from the hidden place I keep it and plaster it on my face. 
"There you go."

I saw, in her eyes
A sense of what could never be
While she wrote goodbye
Letters in her smiles
And when the sun rose
She'd let it hide the shadow
Clinging to her shoulders
Like a forgotten memory
On the surface,
So that all the world
Noticed was a mirage
Of pent up brilliance,
I saw, in her
A fear of dawn
And I told her
Close your eyes
So I won't have to see myself

You were spontaneous,
Impulsive
Charged with a million ways to fuel my lust for you
Or perhaps that was what my young mind thought
For I have learned to be much more spontaneous now and at the same time, less graceful
More myself
I’m not quite sure how I should feel about that.
You were my first lover not because I didn’t have boyfriends prior to you
On the contrary
I was wilder
More impetuous
For I was the one who noticed you on the crowded dance floor
Where you clutched the sweating beer by the waist
I knew you were an observer from the way you studied the swaying crowed
While managing to seem quite immersed even though the distance you comprised was palpable
I thought you’d be shy when I approached you
Shy men where a fantasy of mine
Yet you spoke like you owned the world
Like it should be lucky to worship at your feet
And I realize you were a force all on your own and I wanted, so desperately, to be a part of your wave
A feeling I never quite felt before.
So you see,
This was why you were my first lover
For the fire you created in me
On the roof of a strange building we accidently stumbled upon
Where the night air stole our breaths away
Yet our touches felt like a hot summer day,
Burning away my desire for the men I had always thought were my choices
And searing me in your peculiar head,
So when we parted that first day, at the peak of dawn
With my number scribbled on your left arm from the spontaneity of our choices,
You had left a mark on my soul,
One I had never thought could be composed by a random stranger
And it wasn’t from your ragged but handsome looks or the hair my fingers wanted to spend the night entangled in,
But rather from the dark way your eyes glinted when they whooshed past my bare neck
Or the various ear-rings that decorated one ear
When your fingers made a light brush against the strained front of my dress and my hardened *******,
But most of all, it was the hunger I saw in your gaze
And I realized, in that very moment, all I wanted to do was spoil myself with the lavishness that was you.

The odist of a perfect bloom, without a doubt, with an upsurge of emancipated lust and all that was utterly free; that was you or maybe I should say, that was him.

And he was mine

He was mine…
But I did not possess him. I merely peeked in to his garden, my hands a mess of failed tries, which was bounded by the thorns I wasn’t quite strong enough to climb. I could not own an entity that made so many lust after his seamless embrace and at the same time, that which was petrifying.

Yet he felt lost in my gaze as if what he perceive in them made him fear what he saw in the reflections of his own mirror less. He watched me as though he could not believe one with so much to lose could fall in love with what he was in the most unconditional of ways.

Such a paradox.

He was perfect…
He was my perfection; the only genuine thing I could not find faults upon; a mangled piece of reality that made sense to my disheveled head. He was beautiful in a way that transcended what was ugly, what was fearful and unwanted. He was beauty that did not ask for permission or perspective but a force that was based on a whirlwind, pulling you in to his center.

He was my obsession…
For the longest of times, I did not believe there could be one as such with an absolute hold over another. It did not, nay, could not make sense for I was raised to believe free will was always at play.

Until then…
Until I discovered him…
Until I found he could be my reality and my reality could be in complete sync with his. It did not take time for my mind to wrap around this notion, because, conceivably, that is what obsession truly is, the complete loss of oneself in to the universe of another. Out of nowhere, free will was an illusion, a lie I would willingly let go; it was conundrum I found silly and not in need have. Why would I? There are non that plead fidelity and show restraint.

He made me believe he could be mine while he remained as many others and still I found no fault with his words. My needs transformed in to devotion, in to blind belief that there could not be one as graceful as he or nothing that could keep me wanting. My world was engulfed by a touch that was always so near and yet so far, just enough to have me keep the leash on my neck.

He could be my perfect obsession.

He was it.

Sometimes things are okay,
And its also acceptable to admit that they are
Its also alrght to fear words could jinks them and make them bad again.
Sometimes its okay to be afraid,  of loss and abandonment,
And its alright to voice those fears,
But its also sanctioned to fear those fears and keep them in a trapped state.
And its fine to hide it from people
As it is fine to share them to whom you please.
Its all right to wake up in the morning and dread the sight of yourself in the mirror.
And its granted to have doubts about who you are.
But its also okay to let people see you and convince you what they see is nothing but flawless.
Its okay to hate yourself and love others as it is okay to let others love you. 
And to believe you have a gorgeous yet dark soul is perfectly beautiful too.

He did not let me finish my thought of both the wrongness of what we were about to do and the regret I would suffer after.  I felt his hands encircle my waist,  hauling me close and flattening me on his own body. His other  arm had moved up to my face, cupping my cheek and pulling me up so our eyes could meet.  I felt both the gentleness and the roughness of his gaze, his dark eyes flaring with desire.  He leaned down, his Lips closing in on mine, deepening in to a shivering kiss. There was non of my lover's gentleness or now, I realized, non of his restraint.  He was not holding back as he drowned in the moment pulling me in with him.  He tasted of sweetness and the slight tinge of copper.  I felt his fingers burrow deep in to my back,  sending flairs of pain and pleasure in to me.  In stead  of the feverish heat I had felt with my lover, here there was coldness, the utter chill that gushed out if his body, but it still did not matter because it was still perfect. Without my consent, my hand had moved up across his chest and was grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him down to my lips. I was defeated and he did not resist, Instead,  his teeth crashed with mine while his tounge drew invisible lines across my shaking lips. 

I moaned and pleaded for him to take me,  take me from this life, because nothing will ever be as flawless as this moment . We fell in to the pool I created from my own blood, my body paling out in his arms. I felt him nod between the crook of my neck.  Death never disappoints.

I’m good at picturing art. It takes a whole other form in my head.

I understand situations like I understand art, with a meaning that’s born inside my heart rather than the mashed words that leave your lips. It is as if the originality was lost on my ears as it makes its devastatingly slow journey to my neurons and is just as sluggishly fabricated anew. 

I observe like art, shapes squeezed in two dimensions, flapping around in the non-existent wind. Watching people gives me the same sense as knowing them in a way that I can only see the flat, unrealistically,  linear side of them; one I could not begin to fathom the depths off. My mind also has its own sick way of making itself the only three dimensional being in this packed yet lonely world; perhaps to retain its state of constant solitude or perhaps its survival instincts kicking in.

I sense objects like I sense art, with intensity that sends shivers down my spine; one that is undeniably imposing, for an object also consists of humans. And it always amazes me how someone with so much depth could be so detached from simple but still intricate,  mundane sensations like how it would feel to bury once face in another’s shoulder and smell the very scent of them while being free of any discomfiture.   

Living with the perception of art is the most beautiful gift of all but sometimes I wish I was blind.

Intricate flower fleeting in the center of the sunlight,  
A Rose that wilts with sufficient water,
A dandelion that fell from its journey,  
A sun flower that escaped the gaze of the sky above,
An Orchid with torn petals,
A begonia with an unpleasant bloom
An Ageratum that was crushed by age,
An Anemone that learned to grow during summer droughts,
A lonely  Aster,  abandoned by its worshiping friends,



Why did she keep on blooming?

My Father used to say “poetry is in everything; darling, even in the way you listen.”
That was before he burned all his books
And moved across the street and miles away
But I hold no grudges
For he has thought my ears more intimacy than my brain ever could
Maybe that’s because they’re prone to ‘unrequited love’
And when Yuna said “you don’t wanna belong to me because freedom feels better”
I understood why my mind never confessed to my heart
What it witnessed heartbreak do to my soul,
Perhaps Marvin Gaye explained it better
When he sang “I want you”
But you see, this piece of literature isn’t supposed to be about love
I wouldn’t dare call it poetry
But it is a work of art
Like the mix tape I made myself when I was counting my last days
First on that list was “hold on” by Alabama Shakes 
I wasn’t oblivious to the irony in my choice
But I suppose I forget all about it when I’m lip singing to Gnarls music
“Does that make me crazy?”
“Probably!”
However, sad brad smith won’t let me give up
And in their words I hear “I want you to help yourself”
As if I was the guardrail to my own happiness
What they don’t see, though, is that
Nothing could ever replace the things I’ve lost
Maybe that’s why I have a certain weakness for sad songs
It could also be why I can find sadness in all happy things
And I know I’m not alone in this every time I hear
“The yawning grave” by lord Huron
He tells me “I’ve sent you omens and signs”
He tells me “I’ve thought you melodies, pomes and rhymes”
But I’ve lost faith in those omens
Because Hozier left his words printed on my chest
“There is something so tragic about you,” he said
I have to believe he knows me best
Well before I even began to know myself.
Sometimes I wonder if all I am is a patchwork
Of all the music I’ve ever loved
And the discarded pieces of all the once I didn’t have the heart to
Because every time I try to
It makes me want to scream “I can’t feel my face when I’m with you”
It makes me want to experiment and live
And blast “Novacane” in to my eardrums
Until all I can hear is the sound of forgetting
But when the play list ends I’m pulled back
By “remind me to forget”
With memories that thrive to live on the surface.
Perhaps I’m waiting to be saved
It could be the reason why my pulse quicknes
When Berhanas song plays in the back ground
“Go the whole wide world just to find you”
Until I’m slapped back to reality by my father’s words
One of many
That I couldn’t be forgiving enough to let go
I have my own escape though
On the rooftop across town
And when I look below
All I can see engraved on the earth
Are the words “wings wouldn’t help you down
down towards the ground, gravity’s proud”
So I take back my words
Truly, Bon Iver knows me best
For I’ve lived up the turret my whole life
Hoping someday my bones would grow feathers
That would protect me from the waves of solitude.

Every so often I wake up in the middle of the night for no apparent reason and on the periphery of my vision, I see you seating on the edge of my bed. Your face seems to be dappled but I figure you always have that crooked smile you seem to favor. No matter how many times I’ve seen this it doesn’t fail to surprise me each time. My heart races until the force of my blood gashing through my veins is almost painful. I gasp and I blink, and when my eyes open your no longer there like you’re no longer in my life. I keep expecting to be content with that fact but that hasn’t happened yet and it worries me that it never will.

Grieving is such a strange thing, you know, crying for someone you’ll never see again. You’re supposed to mourn all the pain the loss has caused you so you’ll be better again, better to live your life, to love again, to see the world in a new light away from the shade that person had on you. But what if your life is the shade and that person was the only light in it, as if they were made from the brightest lanterns?


You once wrote to me in the middle of the night, “Make me feel something.” You said, “I’m so numb.” You said. And I pictured how you whispered it after, with your fingers shaking as they gripped the phone as though it was your life’s salvation. I held you close with arms that you could not see but felt and my words covered you like false temptation, beautiful and alluring, and just absolutely right.  Yet they were all just fragments in our memories because we made nothing veritable. I never really let you go after even though I thought I did. My soul imprinted on yours and it was as if that moment ripped part of my being and kept it with you.


I never really let you go even though you broke my bones as if that moment was when we first lipped from the tallest towers. We floated on broken wings and we told each other that all we had was fragments of each moment we spent together until one of us decided no more moment should be made.  It was never acknowledged, of course, because selfishness was in our veins, not matter how much we tried to live for one another, there was a silent clock ticking in both our heads, screaming to for us to stop; to just give up, to leap from the tower and to forget. I should have hurdled first so I would not have to see the remains of you shattered.

When I say I want to touch you,  I don't mean the physical entity you're disguised as.
I want to touch the heart that beats the love out of you and in to me.
I want to touch the soul that is as broken and heavy as a cloudy sky.
I want to touch your sadness,  where the real you started forming.
I want to touch your mind so I can finally find the secretes to your thoughts.
I want to touch the rare moments when you finally laughed a heart filled laugh.
I want to touch your sight to understand how you explained all the books you tell me about.
I want to touch your blood so I can feel where all that poetry comes from.
I want to touch the essence of who you are so I can make us in to one person.

I just really want to touch you.

Maybe I should learn the art of letting go
Life would seem much easier then
If I wasn't hanging on to the treads of my past
And letting them coil around my neck

Maybe I should learn the art of letting go
So i'd feel less blocked
less mystified
Of repeating all my mistakes or have them slither back

Maybe I should learn the art of being free
From the birds I stalk before dawn
Maybe I should start listening to their chirps
Hoping to stumble upon their secrets

Maybe I should stop thinking too much about all the things I do or don't think about
Then maybe i'll teach myslef to put words on my lips instead of paper

The problem with people like me, people with the desperate need to disappear in to things purely for survival reasons, people who must give every last fiber of their being to things that perhaps are not worth the self that they’re giving, is that it cannot be sustained; it’s just not pragmatic at all. But the weight you bear from looking at yourself, I’m not even speaking of the image in the mirror, but looking at yourself mentally is so overwhelming that you cannot stand to be in your own presence to a point where you have accepted that your “self” has been dished out so carelessly you barely carry fragments of it anymore

I read once in a book, not a favorite book but one I related to in the most un-relatable way (if that makes sense), about this mathematician Kurt Godel who was obsessed with the fear of being poisoned so he refused to eat anything his wife hadn’t cooked. When his wife was hospitalized, his fear was so debilitating that he chose to starve himself to death instead of tackling it. The protagonist of the book continues to explain that Kurt lived with those Demons for 71 years until they finally got him. Understanding your crazy or your spiral or that itch under your skirt that just won’t stop burning no matter how much you scratch it, doesn’t make it less of a problem or an easy fix. Its there, as real as a chronic illness that’s slowly decaying your body from the inside out, worse even because you cannot explain it away. You can’t make people understand why you don’t have your **** together anymore or why its harder to balance things anymore or why you can’t clean you room everyday, or get out of bed, or just be there with your friends talking and laughing without wanting to disappear back in to the comfort of your shell that isn’t even comfortable anymore.

Your whole existence becomes one giant cursive that you’ve been trying to master but always ends up having too many unnecessary curves and scratches, and becomes ugly instead of graceful like your mind and your thoughts and this whole ******* paragraph.  

The problem with people like me is that we don’t know that we’re too much at times and too little when it counts and its exhausting being this- always.

I simply wish to fade in to oblivion
Like a sand castle washed away by the ocean
My essence scattered,
As if I was nothing but a speck of dust in the wind
Forgotten
Forever

We keep an abundance of boxes in the back
For the day we decide to leave the life we’ve made
Stumbling towards beginnings
That slitter away from my fingers
Before familiarity is gained
And our hearts ache from the loss
I once asked my mother
Why it was that we chased our on tails
Why it was that we run from customary things
And right in to unfamiliar once
Why we couldn’t stay and belong
While knowing it was the right place for our hearts to settle.
I once asked my mother
Why she never liked my friends
And had me cut ties as soon as possible
I asked her why she never favored any of them
Why she let me be alone with my thoughts
Until the only friends I could make
Where the squared once in my library
I once asked my mother
If what she told me about love was real
‘That it was a figment of an aching mind
Trying to make something more of its existence’
I asked her if I could love the way she loved him
Before he decided we weren’t worth his love anymore
Before his eyes fell on another
Perhaps more beautiful
Conceivably younger and better
Before we started this ludicrous run from our own emotions
Chased by a past that left its mark with ink that stung
I asked her questions that made my chest feel smaller
And its contents bloated
By hope and better things
Inflated to a point of pain and at the same time pleasure
I asked her to give me reasons
For our choices
Why we never chose to be happy
Even after we found happiness
Why we let the elephant grow in our own living room
Until it was chocking the very life out of us
And all she could say was
“Mother knows best.”

I wake under the covers of plastic wrapped around my body; the sealed bag suffocating my lungs, turning them in to a world of silent aching. The piercing light from the windows penetrates my shelled eyes and I remember I don’t really need to breathe anymore. “Cadaver” my children call me. I have no other word to explain them as I know they have no other phrase to explain me. I am no longer inside the spectrum of names for in them laid an intimacy one could never hand to one so cold. I am the decimated clay in their hands but instead of them putting me back together, I marginalize myself with in them, with in their brains, under their probing hands, I live and I thrive, their minds my new home.

They hover over me, their touch a mixture of curiosity and displeasure as if their subconscious hadn’t yet adapted to my rough, cracked skin. My memories engulf me while I bear witness to the way my body comes apart, almost like silk underneath the scalpel, dancing the edge of the blade as gracefully as a ballerina.

‘I am a man’ I think to myself, ‘a man made in God’s image.’ 
 
However, the carved pieces of myself falling to the floor make me doubt my own thoughts. My senses have expired yet I wish to feel again, even when I’m peeled down to my bone, I wish to sense these curious hands upon me. I wish to feel my lungs fill with the city air, all the smoke and the stench of the sewers, the odor of the ground after a light drizzle, the sweat and breath of the people out on a stroll, I dream for it all to overwhelm my senses as it used to. My veins are empty of life and of blood, while my heart sits idle beneath my broken ribs, waiting for a ****** that will never come.

“Limbs aren’t meant to stay idle.” My father used to say while he was young and vibrant. Now I know his limbs, they too lay idle six feet under while they slowly rot away. Mine seem to be too battered to want the excitement of movement; under their nakedness lay all the mystery of Gods genius in its purest form.

They have left me here as an exhibition as though I had not been enough entertainment in life, as though my every waking moment had not been one roller coaster ride after the other, an emblem of unadulterated neglect from both God and man. And still I am forced to be situated on this stale bed day after yearning day until I am not enough to fill anything. But I suppose this is the true meaning of being a father, giving oneself so completely that at the very end of it, you are that something that dissipates in to the night air, shattered in to a million pieces but still knowing you will live on.

She wore a topaz bracelet on her wrist
One they tied around her little hands
Because they told her it was gold when she was much younger
When everything sparkly meant good things
And the shine gave her worth
They later told her gold didn’t glitter so much
That its beauty was in its subtlety
In the way it glowed without glowing
And felt heavier without its weight
She wore the topaz bracelet on her ankles
For it made her feel ashamed
As it hit the light too early
Shimmering with false venerate
Even though the room was miles ahead
And her dress to long for her ankles to show
Yet they still pointed at her covered feet
And laughed at the topaz they couldn’t quite see
She removed the bracelets from her body and hid it in her purse
Knowing it would be sheltered from unwanted gawks and the gossip that followed
She never realized though that her purse was a see through
Like most of the things in her life
An open book
A clear sky
They made her book seem *****
As if it was written with her hand stamps, meshed with all the undiscovered colors
They tore her pages and poured liquor on her cover
So she would have the taint of all the discomforting nights she endured
Following her
Already imprinted
Now she wears the topaz as a necklace
Her identification
Chocking as it’s pulled to fit
She wears it as a brand
Because it’s easier than to have a hot iron road slide against her skin
She wears it willingly because that’s all they have ever made her feel
Trapped in that small circle

'What was right about her?' They asked and I didn't blame them for their questions because nobody understood the puzzle that you were like I did.

'What was beautiful about her?' They questioned and it made me wonder whether or not they perceived beauty because you were the most vibrant thing these eyes had ever seen.

'What was interesting about her?' They probed so I showed them my journals and it was filled with every moment,  every thought,  every touch you had imprinted on my life so much so that it seemed I was truly nothing before and after you.

They made me examine myself as much as you did but in a way much different than I had learned,  for both were my compasses yet you never pointed north. My soul felt liberated while it had you in its horizon as if reality was nothing but my sketch book and you my pencil.  I Scribbled on the blank pages, words and art that were inconsequential yet viable to me, to you, to us...  Until there was no more us.

I Climbed a mountain, 
I Stood by the clif,
My cloth fell off of me without hesitation,
The world was under my feet and for a moment there,  I was it's goddess
I Waited for the breeze to reach me,
And raised my hands over my head
Stretching them as if giving the universe a hug
Breathing everything in
I Felt my soul excite
I Closed my eyes and sensed with all my other organs
'Don't fear the wind,' something in me said.
'Let it push you to the edge,  to the very edge'
My favorite music was playing in my head and I screamed it out my lips. 
"I got my red dress on tonight
Dancing in the dark, in the pale moonlight
Done my hair up real big, beauty queen style
High heels off, I'm feelin' alive"
And I felt alive
My heart exploded
my head contemplated the possibility of Lana doing the same thing as she wrote this song,
And I loved her for it.
It really was a beautiful summer time sadness.

We see
Evolution
As only the physical aspect
Of who or what we are
We see
Change
And we think growth
But growth should start with in
In the depth of our being
Beyond length or width
So that when eyes gaze upon us
An impression is left
Like the vast space above our head
With its stars and the moon and vacuum
An impression
A need
To know and to be touched
By a depth that is beyond explanation

A touch,
A movement of lips upon another,
A little wet,
Perhaps with tears or the simple caress of the tounge,
Eyes close,
Sense,
Sense the moment,  
Feel what they feel,
Take it deeper, calm it down
Lose yourself,
Or at the very least try to,
Why are you so numb?
Want the thrill of it, need it.  
Stop experimenting as if each body was a Guinea pig in the lab of your heart.
Let go,  for once in your miserable life,  let go
Why so immobilized with fear?
Why dread the touch, that sensual touch?
It won't harm,  it will not hurt
Just trust
Trust the hand that holds you tight
Strock them as carefully as they did you,
Scratch back with the fire of the game,
Roam that foreign body not with the intent to discover but simply for the pleasure of it,
Fall back on the mattress behind,
Drown between the sheets,
Feel the pressure atop you, under you, on every inch of your body,
And when its over,  you walk out
Out of the room of great trepidation,
Feeling nothing but numb,
Feeling nothing but the scar that'll stain your back.

She wears white,
And it sparkles in the moon light,  
As her feet dangle from the ledge
Of her balconies edge,
And a toe dips,
In to the dark abyss,
Where the ground stoppes,
And air fills,
Where the wall is no more,
As she decides to plummet to the floor,
It won't hold no more,  
Her fingers on the stone,
Or the steel road,
Constructed by the mind,
That was once her own,
Yet she thought it was time to disown,
For it kept her on her knees,
Begging for a peace,
That felt so far away,
At a distance unknown,  
Yet her eyes could see,
Shards sparkling in her periphery,  
Though it was too late to take back,
choice's known to be bad,
Acceptance was her forte,
Agreement her reprimand,
So when her feet flew from their destiny,  
Her head was filled with insanity.

So you see
We're a parade of soft silky flesh
A mask on battered and broken bones
A plague on beauty
Parasites that drain the soul of the earth
Like we do with one another
Cherry lips covered in lethargy
******* the life out of the shoulders we lean on
And still
The wind whispers "prosper"
While the trees breath essence
Down our cracked throats
Building
And rebuilding
Like a potter mends his clay
We forget
In our blinding pride
We're only a fraction of the unrecognized particles of the universe

When I was 8 I broke my indext finger
On the left side
Few years before that I was in a fire accident
I still have patches of scars to remind me of it
Little here and there
A fading one on my belly
On my 18th birthday I realized I had more scars than I should
More of those I couldn't poke at with my fingers
Irrevocably deeper though
I'm 20 now
But I feel 201
Perhaps I look it too
Not when your eyes skim the surface of my skin
But when they're connected with mine
And the age of whipping moments have made them grotesque
Battered beyond recognition

I used to have a best friend when I was 4
A childes mind made it seem he would be my only friend
Forever and then for the years to come
He towered over the mean kids at school
And waved good night
From his window when I went to bed
When I turned 12 I couldn't recall what this friend looked like
The years had scrubbed his silhouette from my thoughts
Only the scrambled pieces of our endeavors remained
Like the time of the fire accident
Where I had to sleep on a mattress layed on the floor
and he had spent days on the cold tile next to me
He would wipe away my fearful tears
And tell me it would be alright
That I was still pretty
The prettiest he had ever seen

On my 18th birthday I remembered him
And his inoccent words
When such things could be spoken with out dire consequence
When me being called pretty was a concept I looked forward to
on my 18th birthday I broke my curfew
And stayed past midnight
I broke promises
And made bad choices
On my 18th birthday
I lived for the years I couldn't
I took a breath and many more
That weren't scorched with fear of being branded
When I turned 18 I made promises children make to themselves
Come true
For me and the thoughts I never let myself reflect
Now i'm 20
And I wonder if I only lived until I was 18

I don’t want to lose myself in my thoughts for I have been there too long. I have seen and moderately felt what roams in the dark cave constructed by my fleeting deliberations, neither coping nor moving from the trap that it truly was. So I chose to write.

I wrote it all on paper, on the clicking pads of my computer, on the tiny keyboards of my phone, on the tissue paper that came with the drink I ordered in a bar, on the walls of my home yet it was never enough. Writing on things that do not breathe or react is trivial, at least for me; I could not know how much of a difference my words made, how much I affected the world. Thus I chose to write on a heart.

Why not?

It beat. It was alive. It was vital therefore it would not be ignored.

So I set out to find my perfect writing pad, my specimen, the thing that would carry the impression I chose to lay down. My only oversight was not realizing there could be one as needing and wanting as I, looking for the same sample to leave a mark on.

Deception is easily learned, like how to appear trust worthy, how to make people laugh, how to make them feel special and seeming quite in love. But where I thought myself proficient, you were truly the one with the skills; and where I though myself the marauder, you thought me I was nothing but the pray. You danced with me using my own melody, letting me have a taste of control but drinking away the very last of my resolve; waiting with the patience I could never learn to open myself to you.

I live now with your art scribbled on my heart with the ink that I could only get from you.

Lead me on
Break my heart
Make me dance
Under the gaze of the moonlight
Then leave me there
Waiting
Hoping
Wanting
Needing
But remember to lead me on
Because this heart of mine
Exists for the thrills held in your arms
On the tip of your tongue
On the lies you sprout
On your burning fingers
On the balcony of your room
On the floor beside your bed
On your pretty lies
With all the times we've wasted
With our made up feelings
Where yours was as real as my dreams
And mine as false as my nightmares

A grand piano plays past the horizon,
In a place you and I sat,
Oh no,  not with out bodies,  love
But with our souls entwined;
I hear the chellow,
String vibrating,
It calls me,  like you do,  dear lover,
I wonder if we can follow,
To the great beyond, 
Where I knew like you did,
It was our place of peace and serenity,
Where our nature could be shown,
Where we could be happy and true,
Where walls didn't exist,
Where fire was cold as ice,
Where death was but a foreign concept,
Yet our death was eternal.

I see green in my dreams
Reflected in a sky the color of a mirror
And you may argue
Mirrors have no colors
But I say they do
They are any shade you wish to present them
They hold the color of evidence
And truth in their golden hues.
"I see green in my dreams"
I told my godfather
Bargaining in his infinite wisdom
He looks at me through eyes
Heavy with age
And tells me"I see you have learned to hope."
"No" I say shocked
"Its not right for a person
to feel like they have to protect themselves from love
Its not right
To want to be invisible
Just to escape future abandonment
Its not right
To hope against hope
And suffocate your lungs with false truths
Convincing enough
To let yourself down
Its not right
To keep yourself from wanting big things
Because "you don't deserve them"
Its not right!"
"Perhaps," i say getting ready to leave, "But I do them anyway."

‘Death is a beautiful thing. Death is a horrible thing.’ I thought as I lay there, the steak knife still gripped in my right hand. I was wet from the blood that escaped my veins, engulfing me like a mothers caress. Why was it hot? How could it be hot emanating from a cold heart? It was a revelation, a strange revelation. “Ice is your heart,” they said. “Stone is your heart.” They said. How wrong they were. The gashes I made from finger to forearm were now a dull throb, the burning had subsided. Peace was coming to take me. A peace like I’ve never felt before. A true rest. I laughed. Blood spurted out of the wide wound. Warm blood. How beautiful it was, the crimson of it sparkling with an otherworldly light.  How precious. How wasteful, like the life I’ve lived. I was weak now, so weak. It was time, time to leave. I wanted to look at myself right about now. Was I beautiful now? Would all the people that told me so think it at this moment? Would I still be precious to those that told me so after I was blue and drained? Would I still be gorgeous after the essence of my being was striped from me and I was a bloated mess? Would you love me after I was gone? Would you remember me? Would you think back to the moments we’ve had after you’re married and gray? Or would I just be a fleeting soul amidst the wave of countless faces? “Did I love you?” you might wonder. I’d say you were the only one I loved. I wished the force of the love I felt for you would be powerful enough to keep me here. I was wrong. I love you, but I could not live for you. But I will still love you as I am dragged to my grave. I will love you as sand is forced over my coffin. And I will love you as my soul is hauled to the pit by merciless hands to pay for my sin. Who else could love you to the end?

Its not the big things that are hard to get over but the simple, seemingly detailed ones,
Like how you would miss ice cream in the winter,
The way coffee never touched your lips unless it was 2/3 milk,
How crossing your leg on my bed would make you look gawky from your sheer height,
The way your fingers tangled around the pen I gave you on your birthday,
And how you smiled,
Adoration lighting up your eyes when you received it,
The time we caught a terrible cold because you convinced me taking a stroll in our pajamas under heavy rain was a good idea,
How you titled yourself the worst cook and all those disastrous moments you proved yourself right,
The deep thoughts you shared that forced me to lose myself in my day dreams,
The day we tasted alcohol for the first time and how we chugged it down even though we despised the taste of it,
The way my thoughts opened up to you in a way they hadn't learned to do with me,
All those silly moments we spent, heads upside down on your bed, faces pink with the rush of blood,
The day I found you huddled up at the corner of your room, your long legs pulled up to your chest,
as you rocked back and forth, your face washed with silent tears,
How we stayed there for hours, huddled together in to a small ball until the screams outside the door died down,
The moment I experienced the very frist and seemingly last shattering of my heart as I saw you wave to me from the back of your moms car,
And the weeks that followed where our conversations died faster than they revived,
Until the day I stopped getting replies,

.... All the seemingly detailed moments you just can't forget.

I swore I wouldn't take you back when you returned.
I promised myself i'd be strong enough to win this constant battle with you.
But you know how to make me weak.
You blame your leaving on how damaged you are and you show me all your wounds.
You tell me your better, better for me,  better for us.
You say you never meant to start a fire,  you never meant to make me bleed.  
You say you'll be good for all the times you couldn't.
And I believe you knowing as soon as I do you'll leave again and i'll still be fractured...

It doesn't take you long to come back with the same words sweetened with so much half lies.
You'll be good,  you say.
You'll stay, you say.
How bitter your past has been and everything good scares you to death. That's what you said when you found me. I was the good in your horrible and you doubted the very core of me.  You said i'd leave you but it turned out you were the one that left.  Yet here I was splintered....
You'll be good,  you'll be good for me,  for us,  you said
And baby,  i'll believe you each time you do,
Because your the one meant for me and i'm the one meant for you

He was a sucker for hugs
Long walks with fingers entwined
He found reasons
Inconsequential at best
To sense skin on deprived skin
A beat on a lonely heart
Longing for a love he never recived
which made her wonder
How would he know when he found it,
When Love picked him out
From inbetween the clutches
Of a crowded room?

He wouldn't,  is what it was.

Perhaps his ignorance
Was the reason
He dragged her by the ribbon
She used to tether herself
To the heart that overlooked her existence
Perhaps he truly never meant
To write through his journal
What it finally meant
To take someone for granted.

He was like a spark of lightning and just like lightening he could only be seen for a moment in time. He was fragile enough to let tiny moments affect him but at the same time he had the ability to let it all go, to let it dissipate in to the night where it all happened because unlike most people his days consisted of variation of nights.

There was the twilight; that soft touch of ray still existed, caressing him with happy thoughts. He had hope then. Dreams hadn’t turned in to foreign concepts and he didn’t have to lie to convince himself everything was okay.  Then came the night. It confused him at first, seeming oddly desperate. The ground beneath him stopped being stable, instead, it developed a certain quality of being foam like, lopsided, unpredictable.  It rocked his world until he finally fell and broke all the pieces that made him who he was.

It was then that midnight came with all its might. It consumed everything in its path so that nothing of the scattered sunlight remained to be a lantern of hope. He was utterly engulfed by it like the vortexes he read about on his sci-fi books and lasted so long it seemed the only thing he ever really knew.    

He had this way, you see, where he would lay his neck on the edge of his bed so his head would dangle from it. His hair hanged loose and his eyes went glossy with the thoughts that fed on his mind. Then and only then could he see the world as it truly was. Wrong. Erroneous. Mistaken and invalid, like him, just like him. And maybe that was why people feared lightning; though it seemed to be the most beautiful thing every created, packed with electricity and electrons so powerful it had the power to form minerals under the earth, anything it seemed to touch it destroyed or at the very least, seared black. No body dare touch him because in the simplest of words, he was bad for the world.

I rolled the hurb on a piece of delicately cut paper,  perfectly rectangular with perfect width and perfect height,  so it'd make an equally perfect bed to this delicacy I was about to put in it. It was a friend, you see, this conjuring of a plant. It let me indulge in it's sweet essence while I burned it to ashes.  It let me forget all my troubles as i pander to all it provided, still knowing it died while doing so.

Enough. Enough about the intimacy we shared. I'm losing momentum on my story.

So here I was sitting on my bedroom floor,  feeling the subtle cold of the ground beneath me,  hands crafting this masterpiece between my fingers.  Papers flawlessly curled on top of each other made a graceful cylinder with a not so graceful hat on top. I held this magnum opus above my head so I could better yet inspect it. It took me an exact 25 minutes to get where I was, all steps combined to place me in this exact moment,  in this exact time with a friend no lower than a lover.  I put the end of it between my lips and squeezed ever so gently as if to reaffirm it's existence.  I smiled a half crooked smile thinking of how I narrated each moment in my head before placing it on my half finished note book.  I picked the match up (yes a match and not a lighter,  I am old fashioned that way) from the floor where I had placed it before all processes began. It only took one  try of experienced fingers to set the small stick ablaze and traveling to the tip of my art work.  It caught fire. It was a redish-brown.   The fire was extinguished as it fell from between my fingers. 

A breath.

Another deep breath.

Peace.

I felt the smoke move through my mouth and down my throat or up to my head ( honestly, I have no idea how it does what it does)  yet it traveled, traveled every where. I ****** and blew in uncounted intervals until my work was nothing but a dark splotch of ash between my fingers. I thought of blowing it away or cleaning it with a shirt I saw laying around but decided against it.  It felt wrong somehow,  as if I was degrading the level of familiarity we just shared. So instead I rubbed it between my fingers until it no longer existed.

This felt weirdly like all the relationships i've had.

Formed, challenged, completed. Yet a smudge is left.

If you pushed on a glass case made up of your own reflection
You'd sink past the treshold
Because you'll have nothing to cling on to
Except for the rope you'll be forced to wear around your neck
Like the 24 karat gold that chokes the breath from your lungs
And when you finally gasp out the waste that's slowly suffocating
The pores on your skin
You'll realize it was your fingers preventing you from breathing.
So keep your hands steady on your laps
Dare they find the rail hanging by the edge of "salvation"
Lest they pull you to freedom,
Swallow the key chain with its thousand keys dangling from its waist
Begging release,
Ignore the belt encircling your feet and the stone you've tied with it
For the river is merciful and the tide forgiving.

If you jumped from the bridge by your window
Don't look under
It'll only remind you of the edge your not standing on anymore
And the cold, freezing depth
You'll remember forgetting the stories under your bed
With the letters you've never received
So hold on to "ignorance" for as long as you can
Because it makes such a close friend
While it stokes your hair and lulls you to bed
and when you finally let go of the crippling end
walk back to you with your broken leg

His father told him this world was his Petri dish. He placed him in front of mirror and showed him what his specimen had been. He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the stale master bedroom, just stale for him though, rather vibrant in its light violet shade, and stomped at the floor with the most primal instincts. He beat his chest and grew to be too big until there was nothing but a shadow too large to escape from.
 
His father threw journals at his face, once which were filled with blank pages and told him to make good on his words. ‘Respect your women.’ He was ordered on the days the mood was as cheerful as a cloudless sky and witnessed his mother’s tears on the bathroom tiles most of the days it was not. The first sight of alcohol came from the cellar that was utterly prohibited, accompanied by the lecture of a sober self. 

The son told himself he was nothing but a specimen, the clay that was to be molded by the hands of the creator. So he studied footsteps and made good on those blank journals, cultivating a life that was as sour as the beer he snuck in to his room.  He waited for approvals that would never come, hoping against all odds that one day he would be counted worthy, perhaps even, worthwhile. He sculpted out of himself a man he detested, one he could not runaway from no matter the number of times he had tried to escape under cover of night.

He was, as expected, his father’s son, living under the roof of another son that had chosen to bend under the shadow of a prior father, unaware of a cycle that lasted generation.

He was his father’s son even though  he never wanted to be anything but himself.

So I’m sitting here, partially feeling the sun caress the side of my face between the shrubs that grew to be pretty enough not to be a nuisance, the heat weakened to a point that could be considered enjoyable as it can only be at 4 in the afternoon, watching people lost in their comfortable moments, listening to jazz being released from the speakers across the room. The half lit cigarette on my fingers burning away with every drag, better relaxing my oh so anxious mind like a lullaby heard with a drowsy mind.

It makes me think of all writers with broken souls; Virginia Woolf who said “You cannot find peace by avoiding life”  And Silvia Plath who questioned “Is there no way out of the mind?”  And I wonder if their peace came from flashes of instances like these, where they could only lose themselves in a crowed of other people’s lost moments and be able to revere in them.

I am an addict
Of simple words and honest scars
Of timeless tales
And books with torn covers
I am an addict
I snort minimum wage story lines
That make everyone love the underdog
And create imaginary villains
From the old women next door
I fill my niddle with 6 lonely hours
Spent on the edge of a rooftop
No one bothers to look up to
I am an addict
I made my dollhouse from cigarette covers
I didn't have the heart to throw away
I never smoked those cigarettes
I befriended them
I made them my companions
And audiences of a one-women show
I am an addict
Perhaps even,  THE addict

'Am I really a poet?' I ask
While my fingers are giddy over the tissue paper I let them sweat their stress away on
They're my blue charade on a white strip of lifeless glamour.
When I first decided I would attempt to be a writer,
My words tried to escape my lips and I was forced to swallow them back
Because I heard somewhere being a writer is bleeding through your fingers and drumming away the pain on dry,  chipped lips.
I never knew why my throat always ended up being sore though
As I never knew silence could be so draining
And maybe its a lie when they say its a quite remedy
False advices pored in to our needy hearts
Trying to mend them back with watered down clay
That we never let dry in the sun for fear of exposing all that was hidden.

What absolute lethergy
A facade made of sharp smiles
What an inadequacy
Trap between fierce walls
Of a want that had grown tentacles
And transformed itself in to such
Unbiased, raw need
A need neither he nor I
Neither the space we made between us
Nor the breath we shared
Could ever manage to fill
And thus began the story of our crippeld hearts
Though I promise you
Yours had healed much better than mine
For you had new fingers
Plastering bandages over the hole
I made when removing me was necessary
Of such great importance, it was
New delicate fingers fumbled
With your fragile heart
And your heart, bleeding as it was
Let them cuddle it
I do not blame it
Though mine sores from bruises left untended
From blows and punctures
I never let others mend
For with out the sting
What will I have left
To remind me of those bitter sweet
Perhpas more bitter than sweet
Times I had spent stitching you
In to my very being

For a moment he was suspended in time, stagnant amongst the wave of unending moments, sitting over the balcony of the place he hated the most. Oh how he distasted this place, the very air of it stunk of bad childhood memories and a life fractured by unending rules that had more to do with peoples perspectives than the care that is given to a loved one. He hated the gray walls and the unusually white living room. He hated how blue the hallways were painted and the burgundy mat that covered most of the house. He hated the room that resided across the hall from his and the door that never opened. He hated the kitchen and all the food that was shoved down his throat on awkward family dinners that took place night after night. He hated every second he spent imprisoned there, chained with a ******* that had claws in his mind. 

All that he ever craved, all that he ever prayed for from a God he didn’t even believe existed was escape; to rob himself of a house but instead be gifted with something he could call a home. This was why the balcony was the only place he let time seem invariable. The only spot he would ever want life to stride on a steadier pace because there he had control. He had the world in his palm, a figment, of course, but still palpable, thus never cared to share it with anyone else, certainly not these automatons that made his existence bleak.

He sighed, watching the air burn its way out of him, so alive in a way he never expected it to be. Amongst all things, this amazed him. He frequented the habit; sitting in the cold, almost freezing, then he’d gasp air in a consecutive manner just to let it out in steady streams, foggy from the clash of hot and cold. Like an idiot, he gawked, the steam giving him unadulterated glee. And much like the steam, he wanted to exist as a better byproduct of the two extremes. He wanted the fire in him to burn away the cold that suffocated his every waking moment. In fact, he so desperately wished, the storm in him would be strong enough to clear a pathway between his past, his fractured present and the future he couldn’t even picture. 

Yet he wanted to hope even though his mind told him everything was wrong with hoping; for hoping made you picture, perhaps not a lot, but something and of everything his mind could conjure up, he hated it when it was a prospect where he could one day be happy and free and alive past a point of existing and surviving. He hated it because it gave him a sense of peace, one that would undoubtedly be snatched away from him.

He hated a lot of things, his mind realized, for most of his monologues went much like this. However, he also loved a considerable amount but never once spoke of them. He loved in secrete, from a place detached and secluded, where not one soul could make assumptions of his adoration. He cherished and lost in private. He adored and hurt in clandestine for he never wanted to burden others with a love that was too heavy as it immerged from a depth of despair.

He asked me to speak the TRUTH
And I yelled my refusal
With words I never learned to utter
Because my teeth had already discovered
How to staple my tongue
with LIES and half truths
So he thought me how
To lay down my confessions
With carefully constructed syllables
That screamed "revised edition"
And everytime I spoke them
I imagined novels oozing life
With characters that seemed more genuine
Than the company I chose to surround myself,

So the next time he asked me
to speak the truth
I opened my lips
And told him to put the words in my mouth
Because he was much better than i
At crafting FiCTION

Tell me i'm not pretty because every time you do,  it makes me wonder why I don't have you.
Tell me i'm boring so I know I wasn't exciting  enough and that's why you left me.
Tell me i'm self-centered and that's why you couldn't stand me,  because I never understood your problems.
Tell me i'm unfaithful and that's why you couldn't trust me anymore.
Tell me i'm broken and you left because it was becoming to exhausting to stay.
Tell me I don't have a good choice of things so you decided to find someone else who did.
Tell me i'm not realistic enough to form a future with.
Tell me I dress funny so you couldn't take me to meet your parents.
Tell me I complain about how I look and I drove you in to seeing how defective I was.
Tell me I was so needy that I consumed your time and that's why you failed the last exam.
Tell me i'm not smart enough to understand what your talking about.
Tell me I have horrible music choice and everything on my playlist makes u feel depressed.
Tell me i'm lost in my head a lot and you can't find me anymore. 
Tell me I have an unattractive smile and an un remarkable body sculpture so nothing about me aroused you any more.

Tell me all my imperfections so it'll make being abandoned easy.  I can't keep wondering why you left when I was so perfect. Don't sweeten this viniger with honey.

I can only break down thoughts bound as 'uncharted territory'.  They're frail between my fingers. They're gullible; much like my opinions and like them, they require constant tending, caressing, bending and even fending off the nightmares with out the night.

But with out the night, I am speechless. My lips betray my heart with its secretes and signs the reign over to my mind. And still my mind struggles with indecision, vexed over the right punctuation and where it was that it thought to put them.  It's much like the blind led by a wire coiled around its waist, while the ears had been sharpened to the sound of whiplash.

Perhaps I have grown too used to the whip and my fingers accustomed to the rein, mastering the art of drawing lines on my back with words you might not be ready to read. I am an artist in my own way even though my work has never been displayed infront of admiring eyes, even though curious fingers have never glided their senses over my canvas of dried paint and marble. So all i can plead from you, darling, is to forgive my enigma and with it the years of experiences it took to construct it.