motivation in its final form:
coffee dregs at the bottom of my mug.

thick eyelids, oily skin
heavy head.

motivation in its final form
marijuana filled cars
dark,
blurred,
incoherent laughter.
relaxation.

my mind never stops running
and you cross it like red dye:
garish
my eyes won't close anymore
like some sort of nightmare
and honestly i'd prefer a nightmare
because at least i'd be able to ******* sleep

i do this for you,
sotere.
everything i do,
every paper,
every project,
every sleepless night

dad.
i promise
you'll have a house with a farm,
a truck.
rest.
no more weird houses
sliding gently into the ocean,
i'll tie them down.

in this life we're allowed some gnashing of the teeth
but i'll be the first to admit
that these three months there's been far too much
and that the red stains in the shower
are just streaks of lipstick
running down my palms
as much as i wish
they were something more perverse

as much as i pull at my hair,
let hot water
scald my *******
measure out each strand
only to cut it
making sure
anything you touched
is crucified

as much as i try to claw
my own skin off
in the shower
let it dissipate
down the drain
as much as i gasp,
scream
anguish
let the hot water
cry for me
as i have nothing left
to rip,
tear,
gnash

as much as i wish
i'll be the first to admit
that i lust for the butcher,
tonight

that this water
is not hot enough
that my own hands
are not rough enough
that no cigarette lighter
stings enough
no knife
bleeds enough
and i lust
for the butcher
tonight

they say my art has abusive undertones,
lit up on the projector in class.
my mouth tied
like a bow
ashamed,
speechless
wishing it would stop bleeding
through my images.

i called you an angel,
Gabriel.
my angel.

i really believed
that if there was a god
he was instrumental in your sudden
appearance
that if anything was ever going to go right for me
it was you
that december
that christmas

and now i sweat you out
like the demon that you are
labor in the night,
screaming
waiting for my rebirth,
contracting.

i called you an angel,
Gabriel.
i told them
you were
an
angel

i still sometimes hold my wrist over a candle flame
a second or two too long.
i flick lighters playfully while i'm on the phone
or sitting at my desk -
let the flame burn the metal guard until it's scalding,
gingerly finger the hot metal once it cools
a little.

i hand the jack knife who's sole purpose
for these past six years
has been that of a butcher
to friends who sit kindly on my bed,
trying to open boxes from home.

and i still long for that butcher's comfort.

i still miss the bite of hot metal,
the searing pain of lit matches.

and if they didn't leave scars,
i know i would indulge:
like a sweet candy
that i've been told isn't good for me.

black coffee and asprin for breakfast
and i'm still shooting blanks
pouring it over my face, scalding
dripping down my *******
black coach bags
staring back at you
your hungry mouth
reaching for mine
regardless

i know how dangerous self-hatred is.
i'm not ******* stupid.
but how many more mistakes
how many more men
before i cut myself away
completely

what do i do
when i keep whittling down
trying to find the bone, the truth
trying to find something that's ******* constant, reliable
understandable
trying to ******* understand
the intricacies
trying to find something
******* simple
for once

i know how dangerous this is
i know how blood seeps
i know how that emptiness
aches
i know
i ******* know.

but i can't help but hate
every inch of me
you touched
and this hatred
this disgust
is so tangible
you could cut it
with a knife