I never had a lover
Who didn't approach me
Without a knife poised behind his back.
Without teeth straight like razorblades.
I fell in love with the eyes...
I assume it's my eyes they fell in love with too.
Permanently dilated.
When I look in the mirror...
When I peer into my own soul,
I open the gates to Hell.
It's as if I can see into Hades,
With a fiery passion that burns holes in the atmosphere
Like greenhouse gasses.
Maybe lovers approach me
Because my demons call to them,
Begging them to send me home.
You speak in tongues
Like an exorcist
Trying to expel my demons.
I imagine I still haunt you,
And that night haunts me too.
You're the woman in the waiting room
Preemptively searching for answers,
Already aware
That results from the bloodwork
Won't ease her strain...
And I am the uneasy doctor
Trying to calm your nerves
Before I break the news
That nothing is as it should be
And never will be again.
I wish you had thought of us
Before I walked away
And you hesitated
So that you could ensure
You didn't miss -
Checking my back for my stab wounds
Which were merely lacerations.
In hopes I'd be another addition
To your killstreak...
But this isn't a video game
And if it were,
I'd be the juggernaut
And you'd be the camper.

This is a precursor to everything to come in the next year. I believe if I begin to focus on stream of consciousness writing, my content may begin to resemble that of Bukowski or Poe but hopefully not as rapaciously violent or ominously insane. More specifically, I figure in my own storytelling fashion I will account my platonic relationships gone awry based on false pretenses established by reputation of the "societal self".  As well as the romantic relationships that I so eagerly sabotage(d) believing in the assigned repetoire cast upon me by others who believed in seductive over deductive reasoning. When someone calls you something for long enough, you begin to believe it. But unlike others, I can't drown my demons because they know how to swim. I seek catharsis and self definition. I seek growth and competency. I seek understanding, and I seek to turn my version of insanity into something that others can relate to or translate.

If they wrote about me,
The narrator might explain
The dangers of exponential decay;
Of how I might give my soul
As tribute.
He may call me
A slave to substance,
In more eloquent terms,
And to the inevitable pitfall
Where one hits rock bottom
But resurrects three days later.
The second coming,
But not as pure:
The heroine, but a homonym.