Finally, I took your pictures down
The ones that hung above my desk and haunted me
Reminding me of better days when I had all I ever wanted,
When you would look me in the eyes and I'd desire nothing more...
When our intertwined fingers were my definition of perfection...

But why should I keep our sentimental moments front and center in my view 
When you've already burned the memories and scattered the ashes in the sea?

Too often I find my lovesick nostalgia suffocating me while I stare into your pretty Polaroid face.
So, I stuffed our every photo in the back side of a picture frame--
--a photo booth at senior prom, our graduation, a smiling push on a swing,
A black-and-white of holding hands, walking away, heads cast down but eyes lit bright--
--and I shoved them in a box, hoping that my mind will someday follow suit.

In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh

the  exposed light bulb  swaying
bare  walls,  light  bulb  swaying
casts  shadows, swaying  illusion
we're  all dead,  never were  born
we're all just swaying light bulbs
from the ceiling it hangs; suicide
the   ceiling   we  hang;  petrified
torn  paper  and  scratched paint
this is the room  we  come to  die
the room  we  came  to  get  high
nostalgic,   childhood   memories
in this room,  they're fading now
-  the times we were beaten  here
and the phantom  bruises  linger
claustrophobic; the walls close in
everythingfeelsdenseunremitting
andheavy , howdidwesurvivethis
thevoicesareshoutingnowdoyouh
earthemcallingo­urnamesandthre
ateningdeathIthinkitshisvoiceour
dadiscoimingagain­tofinishthejob