I will stay
until I'm dismissed
and will walk beside her
through the dark thicket
and sunlit meadow
I will cut my hands
to retrieve roses for her
I will give her all of my unbroken pieces
and nurture what little she has left
I will carry her when she hurts too much to walk
and I will leave her side when she wants silence
but I will stay
until I'm dismissed
until I breath my last breath
until she falls into the wildflowers
until my reflection fades from her eyes
until my face no longer drives her imagination
until she hates me for loving her
until we walk no more in the woods
until I fall over her
broken and empty
where she rests

I remember you once told me,
Right after I had dyed my hair blonde,
That you liked me better as a brunette.
I don't know why I'm thinking about that now.

I can get drinks for free,
I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue,
I can ****** without touching any part of my body,
I can destroy lives and break hearts.


But one time you told me that you like me better as a brunette.

My floral dress,
The pink and grey one with the collar,
Is hanging from the clothes line.

Your ***** martini,
Shaken not stirred,
Is creating a ring on the coffee table.

I was expecting
*** on a bearskin rug in front of the fireplace
Kind off magic.

But you're late again.
Imagery doesn't matter when you're this ****** up.

I hope he's wearing protection
As he ***** you over.

Hypocrites,
Loud trucks backfiring,
And poor choices.
I thought by the time you hit this age,
You would have ended your rebellious teen stage.
But I guess it's a permanent personality trait.

those quiet
lonely nights
when long shadows crawl over defeated days
and the red orange sun drowns beneath dark waves
a resonant loneliness
washes over me
dulling love and light
and hope
like the slow deliberate movement of the clock in the kitchen, hands that mark the passing time between jade scarabs
like the soft lilt of a sparrow left outside my window, alone in the twilight
as a church bell doles its distress, slow and deep in the distance, breaking the still darkness with its lament
water cannot cover the spectre of memory
I pour another whisky

the blank page is the emptiness between beats, it tells you the gates are closed, of darkness abated, and just how many deaths are too many

the weight of age is the price we pay for experience, we know where the edge is and it was never the girl

I've seen the edge, standing over purple blood stained sand, bullet ridden Red Bull cans and a photo shrine for her next to his dying body

I watched as he lay in self inflicted agony, legs flailing next to the shrine of the cute blonde, "somebody" on repeat on the truck radio

I went back to the dune days after his suicide, purple blood still there next to a latex glove, nothing else remained in the lonely desert

obsession playing out its macabre hand in a desert panorama, but I feel for the girl who got out while she could, immortalized in the desert

It was less about love and more about mental illness