.
Another smirking moon,
I haven’t slept for two days
Thoughts of her, of us,
dreams I used to have,
visions of happiness
now faded nightmare images,
swirling in my head,
congesting my brain
I try, I pretend, I wrap my arms
around my pillow,
it's not the same,
not even ******* close
Rapid (open) eye movements
Tear stained cheeks,
(I can't stop crying)
wet sheets
"not the good kind",
tossing and turning,
kicking off the covers,
pulling them back,
missing her smile, her laugh, her
I stare at nothing,
bloodshot eyes reflecting
red LED numbers
blurred beyond midnight,
ticking slowly,
minute after minute after
minute of loneliness
Then, here it comes,
another worthless sunrise
Maybe someday
she’ll come back to me,
maybe someday
she'll love me again,
maybe someday
I’ll get some sleep

it isn't true ; don't
believe them.

drinking and smoking and black
eyeliner to hide eyes puffy
from crying isn't
attractive.

it's messy, it's wild, it's
broken, in a
haphazard sort of
way.

i present you with a different
face each day;
green eyes flecked with gold.

those remain the same.

but beyond that, oh
beyond that
there's the pain.

and oh god,
the pain, it
could **** you.

i suggest you leave.
i am a hazard to myself.

what am i chasing,
really?

behind the smoke and the empty bottles,
behind the tears and the dried-up coughs
behind the life i know is leading me to ruin.

is it you?

or is it what you stand for,
the laughter on windy days,
the split-second hugs and the
sadness in my eyes you say you
feel sorry for.

and then there's the broken glass.
from last week on my bedroom floor.
after i threw an empty jack daniels bottle
at the wall in frustration.
and maybe a little pain.

metaphorical? perhaps.
tangible? perhaps.

but each time i reach out to
it all that answers me is
a bottle of pearls.

but am i really drunk? or
have i just been drinking
water from my alcohol bottles,
pretending to feel the burn as it slides
down my throat?

or have my cigarettes been not
lighted all this while, just me *******
away at tasteless white sticks of tobacco,
staring at my ceiling and wishing i was dead?

i'm so predictable, it's starting
to hurt,

because instead of dreams, i'm counting nightmares.

instead of lovers, i'm counting bones.

instead of life, i'm living hell.

you give me fifteen
minutes a day to be myself.
and so for fifteen minutes a day i
paint myself into being,

weaving a tapestry of emotions with
just black and white.
i leave my body and strip
myself down to my bones.

my soul sings; i lose being lost
something alcohol can never do
and my fingers fly over black and white.

but at the end of that fifteen
minutes my shirt is soaked with sweat;
my wrists ache and my muscles shiver with
what can be called anticipation but what

i've come to know as dread. and
then i wrap myself up in my pretences
again, shaking with the
effort of being someone i am not.

on some days i don't have that fifteen.
some days are harder to bear than others.