In the time you were gone, I found myself filled with extra space. Nothing too obvious; not gaping holes in my stomach, nor chunks from my arm. Rather, they were minute cracks that ensnared me. These unwanted holes appeared at random; when someone spoke of sandwiches, I felt a soft ***** in the back of my mind. When I encountered a full moon, I felt a throb in the tips of my fingers. And sometimes, when I caught sight of a dollar bill, a pang of nostalgia bit me somewhere deep down in my chest. This discomfort never lasted long. These cracks never formed one excruciating pain – the kind that fully consumes, but diminishes over time like a large hole in a wall that will soon be filled in. These cracks I felt, this empty space, it affected me demurely. As some cracks were filled in, new ones spread forth. My disrepair did not increase nor decrease in the years to come, but rather, spread out to different locations, as I patched and filled along the way. My foundation as a person grew perpetually flawed, yet remained stable enough to stay upright. My eventual remedy was to simply remember this; I am a structure made of concrete. Wear me down, and all you get is more concrete. In this way, it was okay that you were gone. In this way, I discovered the weight of time and also, the art of saying goodbye.

(Inspired by
a lifelong stranger)

These chronicles slinked from her chassis
– the mythomaniac;
she sold every copy.
Stories only fabulists could ink,
sealed within her schticks.
She enthralled every reader;
her cossets: spellbinding.
The husk of an angel
masked
THE Pariah within.
Caped in pretense,
lidded,
she skulked.
The blossoming killer…
Come
Hither.

And yet.

Your web of lies was spun so thick
It's you,
up there,
Ensnared.
You wrote the rules, cunstructed the game, invited the whole world to play.
But in the end
it was YOU
who
lost.
❤️

Welcome to the house of addictions: please, leave your assumptions at the door. . .

             I emptied my pockets
I sorted the change
                My conscience receding
Mentality, deranged

                A straw in my nose
And a blade in my hand
                The velvet of breathing,
Crushed on command

                A line of white rabbit
Appears on my desk
                Clean, and well sorted,
Yet I am a mess

                If a substance is stronger
Than myself, alone,
                Perhaps I should ***** it
Addictively prone

                For, the path of assumptions
Undoubtedly leads
                To the house of addictions
In which you’ll find me. . .