I laugh, You laugh at me, I cry, You laugh at me, I ball, You laugh at me, I scream, You laugh at me, I fall, You laugh at me, I hurt, You laugh at me, I am in pain, You laugh at me, I am depressed, You laugh at me, I die, You stop laughing at me.
2 am; even the birds have gone silent but you force your eyes open as if they were coated with honey your voice drips with the sighing reverberations of sleep it takes on a deepness that daylight doesn't hear a softness gently inviting me into the depths of your arms your slumbering voice could wrap me in its sleepy tone like a duvet pulled from the bed on a snowy winter morning and i'll bury my head under into the mellow dusk, lips curving up shyly like a crescent moon hiding behind a canopy of leaves and fall into a feathery cloud of dreams enveloped by your voice a soft breeze promising infinite possibilities.
This time last year I was writing letters Apologising for the way I feel And the way I have always felt Trying to shift blame onto my own selfish consciousness And the methods to drown it out Methods that left more than just physical scars This year I am no longer writing letters But every breath is like swallowing glass My heart beats languid and slow Every cell of me is fatigued I sleep all the time and I never feel awake Fully consumed in the guilt of who I am And how it must hurt people to love me So no, I am no longer writing letters But I am still revising the words.
I wanted to be better I should have been better It isn't getting better
i'm unmedicated, but when you fell asleep between your glass of Merlot and the outside of my left leg, I was sedated.
my bones never enjoyed saturation, or even understood how someone else could experience something similar; they just reflect raindrops like a two-way window pane.
now, it all hits me in brief, powerful bursts like a short-range shotgun blast and in long waves like electroconvulsive therapy that gives you painful memories instead of making them go away.
i hadn't felt anything in years but even brick walls have soft spots. Even spiders can abandon webs and become kings.* Even someone so full of nothing could feel like the new year wouldn't bring more pills and that love could fly without restricted access areas or delays due to what they claim is the weather but is really pain being drained in the wrong sink, one either too puke-stained or too leaky.
i finally realized that color television was a worthy investment. I can recognize how much brighter black and white seemed when you gave me what I perceived to be the inside of your arteries: red, black and blue humming along at a pace that felt synonymous with what I perceived to be equilibrium.