The warm crackle of static laughter resounds;
the red-hot embers of reconnection
boiling down to the marrow.

I remember home,
though it all seems so long ago now.

Familiar faces,
neglected lovers;
our teenage dreams,
and childhood rivals.

Where do they all go
anyway?

Too bad it's a pretty cool game
but I can't play
with my friends
and I can't play
with my new friends
and I'm so sorry to say
that it was a pretty cool game.

My mom just wanted to say hi
and she said
I was really happy to be a good man.

I look into the mirror.

What have I done?

Swayed by subtle persuasions
Of my founding fathers;
I've allowed them to shape me
Into some distorted replica
Of everyone else.

I am an American girl.

A mirror image
Of the ideal human being
Blankly returns my gaze.

I am an American girl.

I am growing her long hair,
I am painting her face,
I am grinning her shiny-peach-juice smile.

"Lovely, lovely, lovely," I whisper.

I am an American girl.

Nothing but a confined chameleon,
Resting on a tree branch constructed of
Magazines,
9-o-clock television,
And reality shows.

I know reality,
Or at least I used to.

I am an American girl
Longing to wake
From the American dream.

We both know it's over,
Though we haven't spoken a word.

And I hear your sleeve rustle
As you run your fingers through your golden hair,
Nervously. Impatiently.
You don't want to be here.

Our eyes meet;
They match the coffee sitting on my bedside from this morning.
Cold.
Bitter.
Unfinished.

My hands rest in my lap, clasped together;
As if to pray to some obscure divinity
That can't hear me.
Gaze fixed on chipped, red nails,
Trying not to bite my tongue.

You knew it was wrong;
You knew it would come to this.
You knew all along.

Didn't you?

Jaw clenched,
You stare out a window,
Plotting your escape.

I try to remember the good times,
But they all seem so out of context now.
Your smile seems so crooked now,
Your eyes seem cold and distant now.

Your charm,
But free deceit disguised as cheap love,
A poor alibi for worse decisions.

You don't love,
You lust.

Because that's all you've ever known in this world,
That's all you ever learned from your sick father figures:
I want.
I need.
I have.

Human connection,
A waste of time.
Love and affection,
No worth to speak of.

So, tell me.
Was she worth it?

"I love her," You say quietly.

"I know," I reply.

Well you should be grading your exam today
so you know what I did wrong
and you don't have a problem
you can get it together
and I have no way of you going up with me
you know what you did
too well I thought
I had too many things I didn't do

Death of a man
is the only person I know
that is happening here
and he has to come to you
and he has a lot more to do
and you just don't say no one is good

You are the only one
you want me too
please me
I hope you're happy with your family
my god and my life
god is perfect
and you can be the god
god bless god.

And now, the sickness presents itself on my face.
It arrives in the form of two dark circles,
The color of a stranger’s shadow,
Which linger beneath eyes
That have seen too little of the world.

It arrives in the form of skin so sallow,
Of cheekbones so sunken,
Of a mouth too tired to open
And say all the words I wish held more meaning.

And I long for sleep,
I ache for sleep.

As the hours pass,
My limbs become as weak as my will.
If I only had an enemy lesser than consciousness,
I could have won by now.

But every time I envision the sweet escape
Of unconsciousness,
My broken-record-mind violently hurls me back
Into my abandoned realm of reality.

Emptiness, dark room, twelve o'clock, somewhere in space.

Shallow thoughts of trivial travesties
pace through tired tracks, never ceasing;
swollen feet aching for relief;
they run wild
until their toes bleed through their white linen socks
and their faces yield blurred spectacles of anguish.

Hairline fracture of the skull,
oozing dark wishes and sick devotions,
so afraid
that anyone and anything might remind you
of your little demon children
starving at the supper table,
calling for mama as they
sluggishly move their frail little bodies
in wretched formations.

The salt of their tears is
your seed to silently sow;
all you need to know.

To live and forget who you are all at once;
it's nice to sometimes escape fast,
we hardly have a say in these things, you know.

Inspired, mad thoughts
threaten to seep forth
from the confines of my skull;
too terrified to exist,
festering in my brain,
waiting for approval,
for someone to say,
"It's all OK."

A hooded pedestrian
shrouded in black
is slinking past my window;
and I want to hold them
and tell them,
"It's all OK.
Please
forgive me."

To be the broken one,
To be the defective soul;
The privilege is mine.

Incapable of socializing,
Of making empty conversation,
Of feigning appropriate feelings.

"Come back inside,
Why have you left the party?"

You try to smile,
But never quite good enough.
Never quite believable enough.

"They can tell," You think.
Except they can't.

Your time is wasted
Becoming what good people think you should be.
Saying what good people expect you to say.
Hiding your sickness away.

"Come have another drink."

The cold, glass bottle
Presses against my colder hands,
And suddenly the world is warmer.

I never thought
you would be able
again

Too many people would love you
too many times
before I got to see it again

I hope you're okay
you love me
you do love me so sweet
and I hope you're happy all day.

Patiently in the night,
I waited
For your voice to fill the air
With a strange, secret rhythm.

I waited;
I always knew it would happen,
But I never expected it to.

Someone just said "good night" at 1 o' clock in the afternoon.
Jess 35.
No additional text.

Room 2101.
Print.

He's a suffering man.
I try not to let my head come out to play.
No additional text.

Presenting and displaying your findings.
Alcoholic Uncles Anonymous.
Ben shape opt.
No additional text.

Pineapple juice,
Coconut ***,
Cream of coconut,
Penitentiary.
No additional text.

Animal welfare.
April 6.
It's not about being smart.
I tried to smile.
No additional text.

Isolator, validator.
Jul. 21 3am.
LAX415.
No additional text.

Rooms we can book for
Stop left,
Straight left,
Follow it back around.

Going in, going in.
Idea for script: the kiss.
No additional text.

The moment I called,
Chilled to the marrow.
I wish I had some drugs.
No additional text.

BURN BURN BURN
Turned the cold shoulder.
Transducer.
No additional text.

Paralysis by envy.
Has it always been this way?
Today, I feel asleep on a table outside.
To speak is to sow.
No additional text.

Sometimes I dream that I am being hunted;
a wild rabbit
frantically and narrowly
escaping death
At every irregular turn.

The hunter is shapeless,
nameless,
faceless;
an amorphous enemy
lurking in the foggy haze
of my unconscious terror,
stalking my every panicked move
with an untwitching, cold gaze.

I want to stop running,
the blade grows closer;
I want to turn around,
my breath becomes sharp and jagged;
I want to know who you are.

I awake in a cold sweat,
gasping for thin air.

What a thrill
to have escaped your knife
yet again.

You knew I didn't care,
I never could.

Forcing a cold heart
To feel human warmth,
And you never did.

Willing your fingers
Through my ribs,
Hoping to feel a pulse,
Warmth,
Love,
Life.

We knew it just couldn't be.

There is no point
       these days
No joy from anything
   these days
No emotion
             these days
No anything
       these days.

That afternoon, I remember it well:
Mother screams at me
for not displaying proper sympathy;
she cries
at my lack of human emotion.

I want to screech,
         and laugh,
  and yell,
and thrash my body about,
   and inform her
that asking me to feel anything
    toward anyone
is like asking a paralyzed body
to dance.

Instead, I stand there
and watch her sob;
gaze unaverted,
silently vowing to remain.

I thought that was a nice thing to do.

It's a special day

when black coffee and cigarettes are enough to get by,
when numb terrors of inadequacy subside;

when the flaws you wanted so desperately to hide
become new things you calmly confide;

when worries cease your paralysis of mind,
a day when your heart feels open wide;

and, for once, when you said, "I'm alright,"
I could tell you really mean it.

You were once a scared soul
trapped inside a child's fractured imagination;
driven to believe
only the best truth lies could tell,
driven to want
that which you could not have,
and driven to love
all that came too easily.

If only there were a god greater than fear,
we would have won by now.

You packed your things in an orderly manner;
made no fuss on your way out--
no, we barely heard you leave at all.
And then one day,
things were stranger than usual:
a note in your place,
but the pages were blank;
your name, a trace
etched into our wall
as if to say, "Don't you recall?"

And I can't say we do,
though it occurs to me
from time to time
that somewhere
you are waiting
for a day that won't arrive,
biding your time
and regressing forevermore
into the empty abyss
of no recollection.

No, we barely heard you
leave at all.

It's the week's end and
I have no place to be,

but believe me,
I'm far from free.

Hollow black fills my brain
in anticipation of dark solitude,

you will do this to yourself
again and again.

It's the week's end and
I have no one to see,
just my thoughts and me

in this little room
going nowhere in particular.

Working together in aimless desperation,
seeking order in the chaos,

turning up empty-handed
always.

Apathy washes over me
A cold, numb tide.

And I sit here and ask why,
Without really caring to know the answer.

Scar tissue decorates my heart
For all the times I cared.