I think we were in high school, a little more than children when you said you love me.

We're almost real men here, we're "sentimental boys."

I promised I wouldn't let myself be the victim, but when your eyes sparkle in Christmas lights, and you don't eat for days, and you live recklessly in a cruel world, you will experience pity

a little more than sorrow.

Someone said you were sincere and I didn't argue,
because even though you lied to them, you were real to me,
and if I poison that now it kills the nostalgia
for a time I was looked after and not for.
Cared and not sought.

Slightly more than children.

2016 saw a year of structure and measure,
a year of coun-ting syl-a-bles.

Now is a return to form.
Shapeless but congealing.

I'm just like you;
trying to find the right words,
in the right places
&
at the right times

to make art worth the air I waste
and the space I steal.

I grow tired of you hurting yourself with me.
You learn to hate me.
We don’t talk anymore.

My nightmares become fatal.

I stop responding because I don’t know how to answer, and I spend Christmas alone passing out wine-drunk to Naruto. I’m not sorry. My mother calls and I don’t know what to say, and neither does she. Then New Years Eve approaches like a dark cloud to water our crop, and wash away our debts,

but

my acquaintances want to have a fistfight, and I’m asked to be a witness in the police report [but I clearly remember nothing happening, through shades of alcohol].

I clearly remember at the beginning of the night I told you I don’t **** with cops.

Yet, now you’re surprised it makes me uncomfortable.

My daydreams grow immersive. My gameplay grows sloppy.
My reactions grow dull. My body grows weak.
This stranger tastes like cigarettes.
I don’t clearly remember the rest.

I don't dare to watch you dance;
I drink a little bit more, and a little bit more.

I'm asking someone to make me a drink;
I say too much, I stand too close.

My lovers go to art school, and then go home for the holidays,
but I live here, like the indigenous left behind after the tourists left,
after the army came.

It's strange how they come here to be artists, and I live like this.

I thought I'd start the year fresh.
I thought I'd be carefree, ******* and happy.
A stereotype, or a cliché.

I'm still black like my brother, and white like my neighbor.
I'm still a princess to my lovers, and some strange man to my coworkers.
I drink a little bit more, and I'm drunk again.

A painting of men,
tangled in a web of flesh.
Drifting into hell.

Drifting into sleep,
I put on your mix CD
to rinse my eyes clean.

I would pray for you.
Writing it gives me chills and
I might wash my hands.

I yearn for your arms,
and exhale daydreams of love.
Pretending to breathe.

I want you to breathe.
I choke you as we **** and
say something nasty.

You know, John Cage said,
"In the dark, all cats are black."
Maybe that's why we

close our eyes to kiss,
or sleep in each others arms;
We don't fear our night.

I wake up like this;
toothache, slowly, sweating and
over the covers.

Speak lowly of me
if you think I did you wrong.
I change names often.

Though I'm not hiding,
my movement mimics prey and
gives thanks to hunters.

Seasonal regards.
I can't get it off my mind
so I sleep like this.

I could be sunshine.
People tell me that I'm sweet.
I'm glad they think so.

They ignore my hate,
turning blind eyes to the sun.
I am not so kind.