there was once a man
who loved painting
he could create worlds of his own with the flick of his fingers and
every time he created something he made love to it
as only a creator getting lost in his own world can.

he painted a woman
with strong features
unlike anyone he had ever seen
eyes that held secrets he would never know,
hands that touched things he couldn't imagine,
lips that whispered to him in his dreams,
"I am as real as you make me to be."

he often would get lost in fits of drunken rage,
wondering where she was.
he knew nothing about this woman,
as he only painted the surface.

there was so much under the paint
it made him feel a bit faint
if he thought of it for too long
so beautiful, but only
to him.

after a short time, he became obsessed.
there was something so captivating about this woman, something so real
he thought that if he kept painting she could be real
too.

years and years later,
after the paintings spilled out of his home and his soul and his cracking, wrinkled hands
he felt the sun on his cheek and his body naturally awoke.
surprised, he saw that it was still night, and he found the woman from his paintings standing right there
in front of him.

the faint glow of his lamp welcomed her, and his buzzing ears rose as he smiled a crooked, ugly yellow smile.
every cell in his body relaxed
sighing
finally.
I knew it all of these years. she is real.
I know her.

she stared at him,
taking in his words not spoken,
smiled a smile not quite human
and said to him,
"I know you too."

he coughed, spitting up the phlegm of his last cigarette.
"you're all I've wanted, all of these years. I've rejected marriage for you, knowing not even the best wife could make me forget you. I've turned down high paying jobs for you, I've ate only stale bread and old beer for months for you,
I have given up so much to devote my life to making you."

she exhaled a cold and sharp breathe, and he tightened the blanket around his body.
after the room felt like it was going to break in two,
she spoke.

"yes, but was it worth it?"

he closed his eyes in a bright acrylic daze
and died
before he had the chance to tell her that yes,
yes.
it was.

Symbols are signs,
Assigned by design.
Representing the ideas,
Concepts reside.
In the language we speak,
The words we write.
Symbols are to blame,
For contradiction plight.
So say what you mean,
And mean what you say.
Letters and numbers,
Symbolic Array.

i used to pass my fingers through the flame of my lighter when I was 10
in order to see how slow I would have to go for it to start hurting
now,
can’t you see
why I was afraid when you asked that we take it slow

one, two, three shots
a cold basement, a cold count
the sound of laughter and half-hearted attempts at conversation
i feel myself loosen up and even get a bit
friendly
confident
i have my lover at my side and it feels like everything makes sense like
everything is supposed to be this way
this is how people like me have fun
i love how the alcohol warms and coats my throat
until
i feel my mother

(can I call her that?)

her hair, a flame of tangled curls and the smell of
men
drunk off of her and her magic
radiating inside of me
my colloquial tone begins to fall away as she
climbs
up
up
up
and i try and try
but i can’t hold her down
she is suffocating me with her illness and she whispers to me in a drunken tone
she tells me that this is the way to live

see all the people laughing, my dear?
they aren’t sad
hearing their cries boom off of their bedroom walls
trying to pretend the beating of their heart is a death drum
shuddering and shaking violently to the beat of the song at their early funeral
no,
they are loving each other and talking
in their own tongue

this is the way to find me, your mother.
to feel my liquid embrace.
warm and
sharp

so drink, my dear.
drink until you pour your insides into some stranger's toilet in the early hours of the morning.
you won’t worry about the fact that you just got sick,
and your mind has the possibility to get sick like mine did,
that every step of life could easily take a violent turn that you won't be able to stop
you will be happy that your stomach is empty and you are finally
finally
hollowed out

the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, my dear, and the past repeats itself and
i have handed you mine

so drink up.