my face is pink
with alcohol abuse
and a hot shower

i clumsily sit cross legged
on my counter
wrapped in a ***** towel

the familiar taste
of fermented wheat
tingles on my tongue

and i see no beauty in the world

the whole planet,
my whole existence,
has been a twisted illusion

my eyes take in random
collections of atoms and trick me
into believing in the material

but everything
is just a reaction
inside my mind

the love you profess
the taste of this beer
and the scent of my mother

they're all just
cruel jokes
i played on myself

I sit and comfort myself with lies
It's all going to be fine
It's all over now
But then the monster arises from her slumber and disproves my hope for things to be just 'okay'
She screams at me.
Stupid *****! Lazy! Fat!
As I let the words soak into my skin, I tell myself more and more lies.
It's all over now, darling.
It's going to be just fine.

Your ever presence sends a wave of revulsion
through my mutilated body.
Your voice has become the infuriating car alarm
that seems to strategically go off
at 2am.
Your arrogance instigates the razors
hidden under my mattress.

But I love you.

You cannot fathom the amount that I love you.
Because you tolerate me,
and my ever-changing outlook.
You understand that pain allows me to express
the words I will never say.

But I hate you.
And I sit here,
involuntarily,
with a maddening blank stare,
itching to scream,
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a ****."
And I'll run through the fog for the rest of my life,
if it means being rid of you.
I hate you.


Don't leave me.

I want to smoke a cigarette.

I want--
to lean against a doorway, my converse shoelaces brushing against the brick.
to stare up at an overcast sky and know that gray doesn't always need a slow, mournful soundtrack. to feel the paper between my fingers and on my lips and take a deep,
deep
drag.


I want
to empty my lungs of everything they have and watch it all curl, wispy and insubstantial--
watch it disappear into the bustle of moving cars as the coffee shop door tinkles while people in pretty scarves and
pea coats and
black-rimmed glasses
with fingerless gloves
and nose piercings
and black tights covering skinny legs
hold hands and exchange knowing smiles and
enter behind me,
and cold, February ocean wind lifts the tips of my hair.

I want to taste it--those few minutes of isolated reflection. It'd be like meditation beneath an awning on a city street.

we don't hug goodnight anymore
we don't talk about the real stuff anymore
we don't laugh as much anymore
we don't touch as much anymore
we don't look at each other anymore
we don't depend on each other anymore
we don't act the same anymore.

and thats okay,
but i miss it.