I am writing words because speech is often too much. Writing to a black haired girl I have dreamt of, damage done. Aloe shatters in an explosion of feathers, lost out in between my tears. My weakness is something I call a strength, what broke was tempered steel beneath her gaze, wide-eyed in love. The Mother Mori bends her back, back at me again and I enter her, conquered. Do you even read me? I've started moving from your well of gravity and am writing a story of my life with myself as my own unreliable narrator. Would I slide into you? When it's never been a problem, the lack of your insides wrapped around me suddenly becomes one. Butterflies flutter around the butter that has begun oozing from the wound you have made in me, like a sweetly scented rot, a gorgeous gangrenous gap in my skin, attracting flies. When speech becomes too much, I write. You brought me to life by reading me. When you don't read, this dies.

I'm filling the void
left by your absence
with **** and marijuana
and I'm so sick of feeling cold.

The flowers, red and violet,
bend away from your light
and they just won't reach to you
the way I wish they would.

I'm an old man,
sipping a drunken melody
in this claustrophobic daydream,
and my heart just feels like Winter.

...comes from Reddit.

Fragments, strung together like your tears,
shock themselves, an ice bath.
I could steal you like a thief in the night,
your shining white knight,
fill you with my lust
**** myself just enough,
that little death of ******,
inside you.

Well she lives, a life allowed
permitted apostrophes
clinging to the nerve endings
in my mind.

Where are you, suddenly,
a cry from the night.

"What will my parents think?"
she whispered as his eyes flashed red.
"They won't even know you're dead, "
spoke his venom just outside her head.

Brittle flesh
Delicate hair
Cloth on mouth
Lack of air

******* and your righteousness.
******* and your heart.
******* and your pretty head.
You were dead from the start.

Seriously,
I want to know.

Why couldn't real be obtainable?
Why don't these broken teeth release me already?
Why does everything hurt like glass?
Speeding into oblivion,
with you without you.

I had you
in my bed
provided comfort
and safety to you
but you were *****
already
just too afraid
to admit
to your filthy ways.

He was a
robot
who dreamt
it was a real boy.

I love you far beyond the stars
This universe is so small compared
The churning, spinning infinity
Is nothing next to the love for you in me.
My little girl
My only one
Who, if life stabbed with time,
heartbreak, confusion, and fear,
I would hold you up
I would never let go
even long after
this Universe
is cold.

Our purity
such golden value,
and you can say I'm worthy
but I am,
in your eyes,
absolutely
worth less.

...my puppet on a string
mistaken feelings
a mixed drink of
clutched-breathed *******
and red-road nail marks?

Your hand,
(fingers spread)
palm pushed knuckle-white to the wall, shakes.

I am behind you...

My free hand:

pulls your hair like a leash...
breaking against your ***...
held firmly over your wet, open mouth...
wrapping around to *******,
polishing your pearl,
collar of fingers...

Your body becomes
flowing water beneath
my hands. I mold you,
clay. You are so
tight.

Stretching you, bare,
we search for lips,
meet, starving
worshipers who
sacrifice themselves
on the temple
of the other.

Hand on your ***
I've made a meal of you.
****** four ways
you pull your legs
as far apart as you can,
begging for breeding,
and my heavy load of seed,
explodes against your ******

And we are home.

All my apologies, worthless.
All my ego, a *****.

I spend the days peddling my wares through binary,
relapsing into the folded paper daisy chains of atom bombs.

My stomach is a pit of ice;
it winds its way into growth, cold fungus,
clutches my chest like a mastectomy of tar.

I've only had zero peace.

The birds I watch, the scars they show,
leave me stumbling over their hollow little bones,
like the words I try to say to you.

you will *** for Me, until you cannot speak
and for that,
you will call Me, "Daddy."

you will mold to My desire, which is only to better you
and for that,
you will call Me, "Sir."

you will bend to Me, but I won't break you
and for that,
you will call Me, "Master."

You move me
like music.

Your voice
sings to me.

Your skin
is a symphony.

Your smile?
An endless coda.

Your wet,
my hard.

A string of intertwining melodies
bound as one,
no interval.

An ostinato
that never leaves
the eternity of
your Springtime breeze.

You are not beautiful
because your hair is something love is made of.
You are not beautiful
because your eyes are brighter than ***** of hydrogen.
You are not beautiful
because you stand tall, stand strong (stronger than me).
You are not beautiful
because of the endless secret midnight reasons only I know.
You are not beautiful
because you survived assassination attempts.
You are not beautiful
because you bend, but have not broken.
You are not beautiful
because of the lust you inspire in every man that sees you.
You are not beautiful
because of the way our son shines in your light.

You are beautiful,
because you are brilliant...
because you give me life...
because you are creation's sigh...
because you are the taste upon my tongue...
because you are the whisper on my every word...
because you are the blood that caresses my every beat...

You are beautiful,
Holly,
because you are my Heroine.

You aren't my type
but you convinced me
you are.

Then, when my guard was down,
you creamed your *****
on another man.

"You are stronger than you think,"
she said,
not realizing
my situation
only came about
because of my weakness.

If you'd only let me,
I would give you back every moment
of happiness you feel we lost together,
and all the lost potential,
tossed away by the harm
of our addictions.

I would.

Would you give me back
the one and only thing
I would ever say you took from me,
if you could?

If only I could cleanse you,
sponge your body away and out into clarity,
find some emptiness to replace you with
the exit you took took the taken moments
further than I'd have liked them to go.

You bled,
I bleed,
help me staunch the bleeding,

and I don't know how to deal with your loneliness.
It's the one thing
you have left behind
with me.

Then prove it.

My heart cost less than I expected.
You spent every cent of it.
You borrowed against its little value,
ruined my ability
to ever lend it again.

Your Mother died
at only thirty,
when you were just
thirteen.

I'm sure you've always wondered,
and so have I,
whether you would live longer
than her.

Turns out,
you died at thirty,
too.

You found the truck
attractive enough to her
to keep her standing up after each time you ran her down
Each time she saw you coming
She smiled in hope
And ran to the street, stood mid-lane, waving until that moment when
Your metal smashed her smile
Your rubber broke her fingers
and you had won.

Knowledge: My meager roadside curio is more to her than the fastest automobile hatred can build

And now, you do not drive this way very often, and nothing much makes me happier

But we both know the saying, "If I can't have her..."

And you managed that:
braces she has to wear now
slipped disks
scars all over her body
and heart...

She is a different person, and in that,
you have won,
as you couldn't have her,
and now neither do I.

But there is something else:
You forgot that my love is nearly unconditional.
Unconditional love does not exist.
My love is honest, pure,
Not the hardly-unconditional love most advertises as unconditional.
Not the kind that is plastic, and
flashing on a sign on the side of your vehicle
The one I read through tears
Each time
Her hand slipped from mine
as she ran to meet you.

I love her,
no matter what damage you have caused
no matter how long it takes to heal
no matter if it never heals
and in that,
you will never win.

You just keep on carving back my smiles,
elastic vowels you blanket me in,
drowning me, again, with smoke from your belly.
Gargle all the chunky bits
that remain in this blended relationship.
Strain them out through the cheesecloth
which splits apart,
like the split between your legs

The split of an insect’s back when it
bends, arches, reaches too far.
And I’m sick of that bird-****-yellow
oozing out from that crack there;
held in your scarecrow arms.

I don’t want to be your headache
in this migraine *******.

To complain
about being attacked
when you put on your
wedding dress
just to ****
another man.

Powder-white and goose-bumps
in the rain.

You slide down my throat like a...

My numbing mouth,
the flashing lights.
I can't control
my sleep tonight.

Her words
bring me to earthquakes,
if I had held someone before
I no longer recall.

I am lain bare,
barely aware
of these binary borders
holding me back.

Her body curves like flowers,
I have bent backwards
on numbing fingertips,
and still she sits,
a spell
possessing my soul.

The cold
shivered shoulder
of a girl
mocha-skinned
who promised you the world,
but when you couldn't keep up,
she gave up.

All the dreams
of this being true,
that you swore never would be,
are broken picture frames
in the mirror-mask of my heart.

There is sunshine in your voice
as your tight wet mouth
is on my neck
and the tongue
is in my ear.
You lick your palm,
there’s a bit of blood
on my copy of ******,
and I’m coming.

Your body
is a temple
I'd crawl to,
****** knees.

Wash hands in the holy water
of your eyes
kneel at the altar
of your thighs
confess my sins
to your mouth.

Wrinkle pastel ribbons
into your mouth
right down your throat
into the pink folds of flesh,
down deep.

How can we philosophize,
when we are no better?

All spun out like the chaff,
the fire breathing drags on,
clever little jots and tittles thrown in anger.

But nothing good ends well,
as the saying went.

I never wanted anything
but your happiness,
and I will not reciprocate the attacks.

I am not like the others,
and you know it.

Despite your
repulsive
stench.

I want you to know that
your fears are warranted
but we will face them
together.

Suddenly death blooms
the old is gone
and we can be born
again.

All at once
life peels away
like safety scissors
through fresh
orange colored
construction paper.

Fully bloomed indigo billowing cloud
A silver-lining's touch of grey

When you are tired, feeling alone
please know that I am waiting for you
in our home.

When shadows run marathons to catch
and hold you down,
blocking out the bright night sky
making the stars seem so far away
you only need to come to me
rest your face in my palm

Where the starlight of your eyes
reflects in and back out of mine
and pushes back the shadows
and you no longer feel alone
in our home.

Scarabs dance impositions across your navel,
flattening themselves out in honour of your belly,
as I am watching your pulse spell out cryptograms
just below your pink
hairless
skin.

I lap the insects up like a patient kitten, lingering too long
(just long enough)
as the tips of my fingers press down on your
pulsing
hieroglyphics.

A bright beacon of hope,
A window to eternity,
A pride-inducing hope,
A lustful desire.

Are you there?
If so,
it's less.

And you say don't plant flowers,
then wonder why we have no garden.

And you say don't call you by name,
then wonder why we've become strangers.

And you say don't give,
then wonder why we share nothing.

And you say don't speak freely,
then wonder why meals are so silent.

Are you there?

Are you?

And let everyone you meet in the future
know that you deserve to be
#foreveralone
because if you pick someone in the future
and they fail in any way
you will be quick
to jump to a different
****.

All the things, unsaid.
The thoughts, unsaid
behind a blue light lcd
staring into the white space
I do not fill with the:

I miss you so much and it hurts
I so very much enjoyed our time together
And maybe I'm over emotional
And maybe my vision is blurred
But I hurt when you aren't here
And I hate this machine
I've become.

And I worry she tore all my veins out
replaced them with wires, unfeelingly
pumping signals to this lead heart,
just gears and steam.

I am a machine, not a man.
I am efficient
I am strong
I am unfeeling
And I destroy everything
I touch.

"Your marriage is falling apart, Rick,"
she had cried in pain

but I knew better:

She'd already given up the moment she decided
it was no longer "our" marriage.

I am grocery bags,
carried through your rain,
now split at their soggy bottoms
spilling what you filled me with
(fresh produce, water, sustenance)
all over the ground
like rotten, polluted, abandoned
trash.

You used to worry
if I would still love you
if you were a worm.

Meanwhile,
you were *******
another person.

My gutters leak blood
a menstruating pregnant woman.
Golden homicidal mothers
glance down from the entrance
of a Khmer city.

Typillian city we burn down every few decades
and build again.
Abandonded Anasazi
pueblos.
I can’t understand
you
I am a cryptologist failing to decipher
ancient Harappan.

I had no idea
you were tunneling
under the life we had made
churning up ground
and defecating it out
until it all collapsed
in a pile of ****.

The concourse lays out between you and I,
allow this reprimand,
accept this brokerage
in escrow.

Weep the clouds
out of those spinning absences you left,
broken, open, empty,
and full of terror.

I got a haircut
had a great day
I was ready to share
with you,
my partner.

But you were too busy
telling me
you ******
someone else.