The last day I spent with you is the ink that's splashing around in my mind, trying to make its way to parchment, though it'd much rather be the ink tattooed across your chest. The easiest confirmation of our love is the infinite complexity of each simple moment we shared. There is a memory of you burning through the walls of my mind, and the longer the fire burns, the more susceptible I am to its heat. As we walked hand in hand approaching our favorite spot by the lake, you stopped to observe a metal pole sticking up from the concrete in the ground. You were always intrigued by things I never seemed to notice. You were intrigued by the hopelessness that faded from my eyes as I looked at you, the way my hands always found themselves wrapped around your waist, and the way my eyes watered every time you said goodbye; but I never stopped to notice these apparent qualities until you spelled them out for me. I watched as you begun to push on this appendage projecting from the concrete ground, testing your strength. You pushed and pulled, excitement pumping through your veins as you began to realize how easy it was for you to pry something out of the ground. Eventually you grew bored, lost interest, and left the pole slanted, nearly parallel to the earth: not completely yanked, but pushed and pulled, stuck in a writhing position.  Since I've had the time to replay this image like the song I have on constant repeat, I realized that it spelled out exactly what you've done to my heart. My heart like this pole stuck in the ground.

While I was sitting in the passenger seat watching you drive my car, I held my breath. I was all too familiar with your sweet addiction to danger. I felt the pleasure seep through your skin as you accelerated the speed beyond the limit. I felt the waves of excitement ripple off of you with each sharp turn. Every now and again you would glance in my direction and see paralyzed fear on my face. You kept driving. You knew I trusted you. My life was completely out of my control; all my power rested within the firm grip of your hands and the smooth glide of your feet. All the direction I could ever find was within the road you mapped of me in your eyes. You slowed down long enough for me to think you realized what you were doing to me. I closed my eyes, exhaled, and began to relax. I trusted you. The next moment came with a shift in paradigm. Like a tsunami wave that crushed my lungs and yanked the atmosphere from around me I froze in fear as you accelerated to the maximum speed within a second. I felt the control of my car slip from your hands as you tightly gripped the steering wheel. Gasping, I looked into the reflection of myself in your eyes. The slim moment I doubted your omnipotent control evaporated within the fire deep in your gaze. With that sly smirk in your eyes I knew you were finally pleased. You finally confirmed complete control over me. You had been rewriting my internal software, replacing every fiber of my will with complete dependence on your touch. As the world finally returned to me and I knew where I was, I relaxed again. However, this time, when I looked over at the driver's seat you were gone.

This is for the girl who you tore apart.
For that little angel you once called sweetheart.
Tell me sir, how is it you ripped her heart clean in half?
Did it feel good, maybe even turn you on when you pushed her to the ground
Made her feel like trash?
You forgot she was delicate
A sculpture made of glass
Your rough hands and cold heart adding crack after crack.
Mercilessly chipping away at her smile.
She was the painting you picked apart for so long you forgot to appreciate each intricate stroke.
The dancer whose music you cut far too short.
She would have been your saving grace
But you made her feel like a disgrace.
Turn around little boy.
She's was not your toy.
Maybe one day you'll appreciate true art
Just don't you ever forget
That beautiful sweetheart you pushed into the dark.
Turn around little boy.
She's was not your toy.
This one is for the girl you tore apart.
Rest in peace sweetheart.

one day I found myself hanging
from the edge of a grandfather clock
with nothing but time on my hands.
and when you've got that much time
you really start to think.
I wondered if memories attached themselves
to old things,
because they're part of the past.
and if we threw those old things out,
we would probably forget
most of the memories that went with them.

then I realized that people are old things.
we were new once,
when nobody had memories of us,
and we didn't quite know
the concept of time.
but as we cling to the grandfather clock
and the hands fall down,
we grow older with each toll of the
midnight bell.
and when people are tired of their old things
they want new ones.

new things that haven't been
taught the hours and don't
know what it's like to hold on to
the time they've been given,
and I think that's the appeal we get
with throwing out old things.
we get to break the new things in
and get a chance to make
memories without making
mistakes that can't be erased until
they're ready to be thrown out.

I think I'm hanging on the edge of this
grandfather clock
because its hands are tied to my own
with the last bit of connections
I have with the old people in my life.
and I'm waiting for everyone to sever
their ties with me
so I can make the decision to fall out
and be forgotten with other old things
or to grab onto the strands of
new things that will replace me
with newer things.

maybe I'm just going crazy because
I've had a lot of time on my hands.

a.d.

so I might be ashamed to admit that
I've been reading up on you,
and I know how sad you are
because you talk about it a lot.
and I know how you try to play it off,
but really you just feel bad about things
that may or may not be your fault.

I wish I could be the person to tell you the things
that you believed in when she said them to you.
but I would actually mean it.
I get that you want to be hurt because
it's the only thing that you know,
but I could never be that for you.
at least not on purpose.

and maybe with every interaction to come
good or bad,
you would figure out some things about me
that probably wouldn't interest you enough
to look into what kind of person I am.
that's why I can't be any of the things that you want.
I'm not someone else that you know.
you don't even know me at all.

I guess someday I might have the courage
to say things to your face,
even if you were going to judge me.
but you seem pretty open minded.
I wonder if I could fit inside your thoughts
like the cigarette between your lips,
and I could be your nicotine for a little while.

but maybe I'm just saying these things because
I want you to want me,
even though you don't know me.
and I know you don't like heavy words
said without real meaning,
but I mean it when I say that
I may not be what you want
but I will try to be whatever you need,
even though you don't even know
my name.

a.d.

you make everything so ******* complicated.
you make me want to stab myself
in good ways and bad ways;
if there's even a difference.
I don't know what you want from me.
I think you don't want anything,
but then I think you want things
that I can't give you.

I've done enough of thinking
that I mean something to people,
because that's never the case.
I was mad at you,
but then I was mad at myself
for even caring what you thought of me.
I've done enough of caring about
things that I don't understand
so I've been trying to understand you,
but you make everything so
******* complicated.

a.d.