It’s always in the night-time
when the ghosts of our dark pasts
come out and haunt us most.
They whisper secret memories,
tantalizing dreams of what once was,
that can never be again.
And we confuse these alluring, bygone memories
with true visions of the future.
Awaking unsure in the sunlight, confused,
and wishing for the moon.

I want you to love me.
I want you to love me fast and hard
and so deep I can't stand it.
I want you to love me until we burst into the sky
as two new stars,
brighter than any others.
And scientists will be baffled,
they'll spout equations and physics,
but they won't know.
The only people who will understand
will be the couple holding hands, laying down in the field,
who name the two new stars after themselves.

People say they have a broken heart,
when they are betrayed.
But a broken heart isn't a hurting one,
it's one that cannot feel at all.
A pinch, a stab, a punch, a bruise,
a cut, a broken bone.
Anything besides this agonizing apathy.

They're going to be taking my pencil away after this.

With sinking thoughts,
my mind fell
To dark depths where my nightmares dwell.
My body turned and tossed about
my lips parted to give shout,
But no sound came,
my silent scream
of terror where no light could gleam.

Damp, heavy sheets
twisted around my legs,
like cold night sweats,
but there was no nightmare.
It was just the rain,
that had beat against the walls and roof and windows all week long
finally getting in.
That night,
that night of no nightmares,
I met another patient.
His eye looked at me,
then through me.
And through the walls
and through the rain
through the very fabric of reality itself.
They alighted on another world.

Maybe it was a better world,
with gentle rain that never broke through walls.
And bright greens and oranges.
A world where fairies serve ambrosia
with diamond studded wings.
And centaurs carry crystal cups
filled from the fountain of youth.

I'm jealous of his Neverland.
Jealous that he can escape
while I wake up with drenched sheets
once more clinging to my legs.

Right off the bat, I want to remind you that I'm not sorry.
That being said.
Sometimes, I empathize with
Lady Macbeth
and her perpetually stained hands.
More often, I sympathize with
Pontius Pilate
and his hands that never got *****.

Have you ever cut yourself
slicing chicken, shaving legs?
You put your finger in your mouth,
so you don't get blood on the dinner,
and **** life.
Slightly salty, slightly sour.
And red, so, so red.
Red like roses
        like leaves in fall
        like firetrucks
        like a slinky dress
        like blood.
So red you can taste it.
Have you ever cut someone else?
It's just like chicken really.
Turns out, other people bleed
just as salty, sour,
and even more red.

One of the nurses was humming a song today.
I had forgotten about music.
I think it was a wedding march.
She was wearing a ring too.
I had forgotten about love.