The hour that demands the following day be wasted.
The hour that proves you are irresponsible.
The hour for those under twenty-five.

The hour birds wake to begin their incessant morning clamor.
The hour the body begins to loathe the mind.
The hour focus drifts away on the smoke of tonight's last cigarette.
The hour of what-am-I-doing and how-can-I-live-like-this.

The incorrigible hour.
Chronic, hopeless.
The most degenerate of all hours.

There is little pleasure in familiarity with four in the morning.
If those birds are screaming love ballads to the early morning sun
three cheers for the birds. And let me now lie down to sleep
if I am to go on living.

When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.

When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.

When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.

Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by S. Barańczak & C. Cavanagh

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there, I'm not going
to let anybody see
you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I pur whiskey on him and inhale
cigarette smoke
and the ****** and the bartenders
and the grocery clerks
never know that
he's
in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say,
stay down, do you want to mess
me up?
you want to ***** up the
works?
you want to blow my book sales in
Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that
wants to get out
but I'm too clever, I only let him out
at night sometimes
when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be
sad.
then I put him back,
but he's singing a little
in there, I haven't quite let him
die
and we sleep together like
that
with our
secret pact
and it's nice enough to
make a man
weep, but I don't
weep, do
you?

you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction or
distress.
they dress well, eat
well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they have moments of
grief
but all in all
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy
death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but I am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one
of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them
but they are
there
and I am
here.

Sometimes I think back to when the faint blue vein that runs around my eye like a mask was something I was proud of,
and not a quaint reminder of the walls I’ve built around myself.
I’ve resided in this house all my life,
surrounded by fogging windows and doors that only seem to deepen with each passing day.
It looks like a normal house,
with a flourishing garden and an ivory front door adjacent to modern illuminated panes.
There’s even a charming pond out back,
complete with a well- loved dock made of sturdy oak.
The elegant, circular driveway showcases the aesthetically pleasing symmetrics of the home’s exterior,
and guides inside a plethora of well- dressed civilians that I should probably remember meeting at some point,
for they all seem to know my name.
They tell my that I’ve sure grown up since they’ve last seen me,
and adore what I’ve done with my hair.
But I don’t understand how I could remember each and every face in this endless sea,
for I’ve never been able to escape this house.
The doorknob burns my palm each time I try.
However, I do recognize my aunt as she makes her way towards me,
taking cautious steps in her floor length, ivory gown to hand me a bouquet.
She gently embraces me and whispers a thoughtful, “I’m glad you could make it,”
and I smile into her shoulder, even though I’ve been here all this time.
A dignified man makes a cordial announcement,
followed by a memorable ceremony in a spacious place barely recognizable as a living room.
I cry for no reason,
but pretend it’s because of the newlyweds joining hands before me.
Soft music begins to play,
and drifts effortlessly through my ears and surrounds me,
slowing down time.
I make my way to a table decorated with rustic burlap and candles,
and seat myself next to my cousin.
I feel sick.
Then before I even know it,
I’m mixing champagne in with my 7-up in order to conceal the bitter taste,
in a poor attempt to forget that I’m even drinking at all.
The Bride’s father makes a toast,
but my drink is already gone.
Yet I’ll clink glasses with my cousin anyway
with my feet shaking under the table.
My aunt looks so beautiful in her wedding dress.
I imagine opening the back door without any pain,
and laying face down on the dock outside with my arm hanging limply over the edge;
my fingertips grazing the cool water’s ebony surface.
With the faint glimmer of lights from the house below my hand,
I’ll be forced to catch flickers of my messy curls and pale face
Watching the night swell like a bruise,
reminding me of you
and desperately pleading for something to pull me under.

t.b.