There are razor blades threaded in my tongue
Each time I go to speak
I end up cutting off someone
And the ceiling cracks from the heavy weight footsteps of the creatures living above me
I am terribly conscious
And horribly aware of the things surrounding me
The crumbling pain into which the children of younger generations were born
Birthed into a dead space where we will all become deceased
But when do I find the meaning of living?
I've tried to be patient and I've tried to be calm
But my mind has a timer that ticks like a bomb
Explosive thoughts and cancerous feelings are all that patrol my mind and soul
I hope I don't live to be old

You sink, even with a life jacket on,
Crying is impossible, for you cannot feel,
Everything tastes the same,
Love becomes relegated to mythology,
Even your dog frowns when you're around,
Clarity is found through darkness,
You have accepted the fact that you will never be happy,
Yet you never lose hope, for you never had any.

I looked into her eyes as I slit her throat, they screamed, “Why?” I didn’t mean to **** her, I watched as her body went limp, crashing onto the cold, marble floor, I had to hide the body but where? I found myself grabbing a shovel and hiding it in the backyard, I had to wash the blood off my body, I soaked the sheets in bleach and burned all the furniture, there was nothing left but ashes and dust, I knew her family would start wondering where would she be, I was nervous, frightened at the fact that they would soon learn the truth, her father was a strict disciplinarian with a catholic background, he preached purity yet practiced adultery, sometimes his lips would kiss the heads of whiskey coated bottles.

During his drunken stupors, his fingers would slip between the cracks and crevices of his daughter’s white skirt, his drunken stupors soon turned to violent outburst, his large, gaping hands grasping the soft, tender flesh of her mother’s throat, she was a quiet woman, she would sit in her recliner and sip on her ruby red wine, her cigarette ashes would be scattered across the floor, her eyes would slip into a stupor, she would sneak her lover's home and fornicate in the master bedroom, their violent ******* would shake the walls, rattle the cabinets and keep the neighbors awake, the whole neighborhood knew of their infidelities yet said nothing, especially her daughter, who would watch their father and mother take home various strangers for their twisted ******, then she met me, I would listen to her, she spoke as the whole room went silent, she would speak about her dreams and fears, I would become her shoulder to cry on, I remember one day, as my fingers would fiddle through her soft, black hair, her eyes, dull and dim, would lay their hints of a tortured life, they were brown, a dark brown, her eyes slowly lost their luster, she would stare at me and the world with such contempt, I knew, I knew that she only wanted love.

I watched her as she slept, her fragile hands, gripping tightly on a crucifix and a bible, she would twist and turn out of frustration and guilt, in her mind, she wanted only to repent. I found her one day with her head slumped over the toilet, the pill bottles and ****** needles sat right to the pool of ***** that flooded the bathroom floors, her eyes were bloodshot, her arms were bruised, battered, and marked, I took her to the hospital, I still wonder, how did she survive? When we returned home, I looked at her, her body would shake and she break out in hot flashes and cold sweats, she couldn’t handle the pain, I could tell, she would look at me like sick puppy wishing to be put out of its misery, she grabbed my hand and gave me the razor, she pleaded and prayed, as I paced the room, I contemplated the thoughts of assisted suicide, as I watched her, she look into my eyes and whispered “Please…” I took the razor, with my hands gently caressing her hair, my hands, the blade, dance across her throat, I saw the blood, the luster in her eyes had returned as she slipped into the afterlife, I knew in death, that she thanked me, I saw the pain, I saw the relief.

i. I don’t know your favorite color but I know you love the blue-green complexion of the ocean washing up on the beige grains of sand; the reds, oranges, and yellows of the leaves softly and swiftly falling to the ground at the close of autumn; the green blades of grass blowing calmly with the summer wind; the golden brown shimmer of my eyes caught in passing rays of sunlight.

ii. Sometimes I try counting the scars on your body as if they were the stars lighting up the beautiful night sky. I find that each one, like a single star in a constellation, makes you more beautiful than the last.

ii.b. Stars are dead, their light only a mere representation of what once actually was. Your scars are evidence that you are a part of the human experience; death is proof of life. Your story is one that I can’t put down.

iii. Your melody meets my ears like the soft waves of summer meet the shoreline. Your voice, a love song with all the right notes, engulfs me entirely. You are a ballad I play endlessly. Sometimes I think my ears can only hear your symphony. I get lost in your voice.

iv. The touch of your hand warms mine as if it’s a crackling fire in the dead of winter; a flame I find complete comfort in. I wonder if two things have ever fit together so perfectly before.

iv.b. Two things have never fit together so perfectly before.

v. You are a home made up of muscles, skin, and bones. Your presence is reminiscent of lazy nights on the beach and long car rides with the music blasting; I am at ease whenever I am with you. I am safe. I am home.

...I can try all I want to describe your love but no words that I say will ever do it justice.

It's true, I think,
That sometimes I don't know what to think.

I toss and turn and roll all about,
Living without living,
Doing without meaning,
Accidentally planting soft seeds of doubt.

I think in Solitude
I become more confused.

I write without knowing what these words say,
Or what they will mean to you,

Dear,
Faithful,
Compassionate,

Reader.

This is such a selfish exercise,
Writhing for your approval.

Still I know I'll submit

To the hopes of finding a kindred spirit--
That my words might touch your eyes,
And soothe your mind.

This is my only wish.