The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Now we've come to the end
And I have so much to thank you for
so thank you for wasting my time
for making me second guess every move I make
for helping me weave a tapestry for my teenage years
one laced with paranoia and bad timing
thank you for pushing me away
which forces me to let go
forces me to grow and wrap my arms around myself
instead of you
thank you for forcing me to put the care and effort into myself
for making me less hollow
by leaving
Thank you for letting me know you didn't care
and that's okay because now I know it wasn't my fault
thank you for letting me breath

Throwing silk sheets over a worn mattress
I cannot fathom the idea of you sleeping here
you accidentally pulling a corner off and seeing the stains beneath.
This hotel has been vacant for months.
But that doesn’t mean the guests before you
Were kind to it.
They said ‘**** it’
Left the mess for house keeping,
Blood stained walls
Feathers from ripped pillows
A maid sighs and shakes her head
Ten dollar tip for wasted effort
Have to put the pieces back together again
Vacancy sign illuminated again.
Do not do this to me again.
Cleaning supplies are expensive.
And this business has made me so poor

It's not simply a collection of stories
But rather my memories
Memories of how those books got there
Characters' whose company
Helped me through my darkest times

"Artemis Fowl"
The day I lost my brother to the army
With nothing but a book
To remember him by

"Tower of Dawn"
When Yrene Towers was my only friend
Even in an empty room, with that book
I never felt truly alone

"Heir of Fire"
8th grade school year
With two Cs on my report card
I didn't know if I were to make it

"Rules for Disappearing"
The year when all I wanted
Was to disappear..
Perhaps from life itself

Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.

Yes I am torching
ber curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.

How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the ***** is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.
My dreams probe

a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.
How warm it was and wide

once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.

Only a little more,
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,

I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.

Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy

past pain,
keeping his heart
such company

as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall

into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and *******
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.