She's got needs.
His heart bleeds.
She deserves the best.
He can have whats left.
She can live at home.
He's out on his own.
Without a job She's fine.
Jobless he's not worth the time.
She pulls all eyes.
Invisible he dies.
Heartbroke she finds another.
Six feet under he's a number.
She's always the victim
They don't care she killed him.

As dusk approached,
the fire in the sky
lit the mountains of the Mojave
aflame.
Painting the horizon
as hot coals,
destined to smolder.
Gray haze hanging
in the valleys.
The breeze brought night,
the moon, and stars
uncountable.
It was life, and
death,
the peace,
and violence
between.

Seeing the desert
reminds me
of things I wish would die
like memories
of love lost,
of fake friends,
and lies.

And yet the desert calls me
it's beautiful geology.
The sandy, rocky, dry heat,
the tumble ****,
oasis,
the cool nights,
the Vegas lights,
the histories,
it hides.

The love hate relationship with food,
is so strong. It consumes your life. It is on your mind every second of the day. It becomes your only reason for it all. The only source of contentment, but also the source of your fear, your self hatred, you want it so bad but you abstain because you're scared of the guilt and the consequences you will subject yourself too. To earn your right to feel happy. You impulsively exercise to extremes. And your peers will applaud your dying body.  You have to keep the routine because without it  you are terrified of the free time without focus, because the cycle of hunger and hate will set in. Society has convinced you you're not worthy of love unless you are a *******. If my peers knew the state of my mind they'd ridicule me for not being manly. There are moments, everyday, when you spectate a battle of reason and anxiety in your head.
And all the while you're on a timer. Counting down as your heart rate slows, organs strain and cease, friends drift away from your inability to pretend you're ok, and you are left alone and family beg for your sanity, because you inconvenience them. Everyday, ending it all seems the best solution, but you know better than most, how hard you are to ****. You're also a coward. If there is no intervention you will die, slowly, but assuredly you will. You have the final say.

The wanderlust
is a front
for my need
to always be running.
To hide from the demons
within.
To escape the parts of me
I want dead.