The idea that love exists
For people like me
Is down right unfortunate.
I'm sorry. I won't try again.

I am not cut from the same branch
But from a different tree entirely.

My tree is brittle and covered
With the tracks of termites
And dry rot.

I will never be able to hold up the collective or even your branch
Laying gently across mine.

I do not care that this is how we grew.
Naturally or by universal truth,
It does not matter.

I'm only here because I am.

My first words to you
Were about a card game:
I called you a loser.
Had I known you would
Become more than family
To me, I would have worded
Things differently.

You came into my life
Right after the exodus of
Masquerade excuses
I considered friends.
When I felt like nobody
Could ever fulfill that bond.

But you opened me up to
New ways of thinking and
Guided me along my journey.
You shaped me into the person
I am today.

I can never repay that kindness
But hopefully after another
Ten years I can figure it out.
You taught me that soul mates
Could be my brother.

And I know that when I go dark.
Or stray from my path;
You'll always be there where the roads
Rejoin.
I couldn't thank you enough for that.

This is the darkness
I have preached that no one
Wants to see.
This almost mirror image of
Myself scratching away at you.

I find myself wondering if
My warnings fell on deaf ears
When I spoke. Or did you even listen?
Well, you asked for it.

Bear witness because
Nothing anyone will ever do
Will make me happy.

Your name will be
An incurable stain on my soul
Forever.

Regardless of the strides
I take to move past it.
You always happened.

I will never escape you.
One day I will accept that.

Optimism means looking at the dark
And seeing a brighter side.
Looking for a better outcome
From the waste that has been my life.

When I woke up that day
And told myself that I had
Had enough of the dark,
That I would venture into
The light with dignity.
I did so under false pretense.

Much like I do with everything.
I thought that I could shed this outer layer
Of filth and decay and become new.
But that is not the nature of dark things.
All I did was burn every *******
Bridge I had ever built.

But hey, it gets better right?

I have always considered
Myelf a dead thing.
Or at least in some form,
Close to my expiration.

I don't feel this way to be
Edgy or draw attentions
To my sufferings,
I just feel it.

I feel a lot of things though,
Kind of like the washing
Machines in laundry mats:
Stagnant and worn but with purpose;

Used soley to cleanse other
People of their miseries
And add another layer of
Decay in my basin.

But meeting you was like,
The mechanic coming right before
The final stretch, before all
Of my insides finally gave out.

Mending the wires and veins
So frayed from use with only
Your softness, your fingers
Caressing away years of age

To see fresh metal underneath.
You cleaned the cogs and bones
Of their filth and reminded me
That I am not broken.

And though I could think
Of nothing better to equate
The effect you have on me
To anything other than a

Broken washing machine,
Know that you played a part
In keeping me going for
A little while longer.