I could not even love  myself.

the night takes over my mind.
suddenly - i am filled with darkness.
my heart, a broken record.
the words spin.
over and over again,
midnight rotates forever in my head.

My drug
Obsession and addiction

Can’t stop
I know you have some issues

You open up but then withdraw
So close beside but then you go

Can’t wait, I push, I want it all
But all I do is hit the wall

Too soon, too much, yet not enough
Now I can see- must have been tough

No hate, no tears, I’ll just go
I tried my best but hit the wall.

People around me
Energy-drowning

I hear them talking
Small talk about nothing
I want to escape it
Control what I take in

I’m right in the crowd
Yet I’m all alone
My thoughts are too loud
I want to go home

Are these all wrong people?
Am I being wrong?
Take me somewhere peaceful
Leave me all alone.

"To get a writer to fall for you, you just have to write about the moon!"

So she chirped—and so I will write about everything but,
like her ****, which I've never seen, but I imagine
could be a whole-*** natural satellite all by itself
(that's why they call it mooning),
the kind of satellite that brings all the boys to the yard,
all the boys who look for the NEOWISEs and Hale-Bopps in the night sky.
If I wanted to date a *****,
I would ask for Freud, and he would ask about my mother,
and I would wish that she was divorced and single.

Hell no, I don't want a writer falling for me.
I don't want anyone to fall for me.
I want to drag them down myself, into pits of mud and tar,
two grimy pigs slobbering and kicking and falling over each other.
I want the kind of love that lasts just a single night,
a night where all the snakes and swans and bears in the sky come alive,
where every corner is a new musical, every step a new circus,
where the flutes and pianos and violins blare just as loudly as the sirens chasing us,
where time is bottomless as mimosas.

Function—
where time slows itself amongst the spring petals,
suspended in disbelief, a viscous clarity, a freezing *******,
where even physali and gerbera meet their maker.
And, for such, too, do I pray, world orb in hand,
rattling from its industrial chain links,
an inhospitable world, the only one I know.

It is a world
that I would tuck under my collar, the subtlest bump
raising eyebrows amongst all at the orphanage
for fear I was one of the loved, the created,
the different, unlike them:
one night, one mistake, and nine months of regret.

Forme—
I do not know my maker.
I do not know why she made me.
But I'm sure that it wasn't easy,
amidst the blizzard,
in a world not unlike my own,
with nuts and bolts and brains
and all that.

Thirty years passed
like a dark flight of
small birds across
a half-blue moon.

I watched through
a keyhole of grief,
viewpoint diminished
like medicated pain.

I watched lemens
climb skyward,
remembering as
they fell away
into the night’s
silent smile.

With you no longer,
there is no wealth
of consolation. I am
as frail as a rag,
my will a withered
fruit.

How pure a thing is joy
that I no longer know,
my heart espaliered
to a wall of silence
and the sorrows of distance
that never scatter away.