I have this part of me,
A glaringly large part of me,
That I must hide from the world.
Symptoms, thoughts, feelings, and emotions
that I have to cram into a little lunchbox.
By the end of the day this little box weighs
a hundred pounds,
And I alone unpack it's contents
every night.

It's exhausting.
And I'm tired.

Is it my voice, or yours, that I hear
When I pick up a knife and fork and put
It straight back down because
I haven’t earned my reward?

Are they my eyes, or yours, that trick me
Into thinking I’ve gained immense amounts of weight,
Even though my clothes hang loose and
I’ve lost two inches off my waist?

*

It’s ironic,
this disease;
it eats away at me.
The malignancy consumes me.

My expectations
Embrace nothing, is something
Simply and fully

Compassionate soul
Radiating unfiltered
Love toward all there is

It's broken, scattered in pieces, in shreds.
What was immoveable, now is crumbled.
It morphed from spool into puny threads
And got so futile and so unrequired.

All is gone, both faith, and repentance.
And what is now, no meaning, no goal.
No one needs excuses or blaming.
Neither of those who needed are gone.

All is trampled down, mixed up.
All is stupidly wasted in whole.
And only one mediocre Zero
Is stayed with no shame at all.

Night falls without word
Of man nor word from thee
To me,
We have differing views
On contact you and I,
Contact between partners,
Contact between friends,

Conversation about what passes
Betwixt each of us
And any other,
Although you're prompt
To interrogate about clients
Which I understand given
Our past,

But as partners we have
Yet to settle on a path that
Permits us easy conversation
On anything and anyone,
And that loving trust
To which I for one do yet aspire
And we for two do need,

But we shall get there because
I shall not balk at the
Difficult subjects,
Nor turn away lest your
Rage arise again for
If it does then it must and
Its every demise will draw us

Closer