I'm tired of relentlessly digging up my own guts.
Insides wrenching until I feel something close to empty.
Empty.
Sometimes empty seems so loud.
To escape the confines of my hollow silence,
I plead with my whirlwinds to redirect my madness.
Madness strung hand in hand with the outlawed 40,
and over rowdy yuppies that are too old to illegally sketch their rebellious spirits on ads that taunt them with their own insufficiency.
The sounds of smashing glass invite me to **** up my blackness into the midnight hours.
The smell of defacement summons me to heave my loneliness onto someone else's tangible reality.
But even in the electrifying twilight, I can't help but feel tired of digging up my own guts.

Sitting with the ironic weight of my cigarette smoke resting on my shoulders.
My body filling with worse things than tar.
Your name crosses my mind like an uncontrollable twitch,
again,
and again,
and again.
Some days it becomes comforting,
like a metronome.
Until I look down and I'm marching to the beat backwards.
Into my Parliament lights I think I've floated away,
only to see my exhales spelling out that name.
I beg to be introduced to a new beginning, as I so gently kiss them.
But they only know of one.
Their ***** souls are but feathers in my lungs.

You are like a one way mirror obliviously standing on the other side of yourself.

There's this mermaid girl I knew once.
She had long blonde hair,
and she smoked tobacco under water.
She defies the laws of the universe.
She had deep green eyes
that screamed the names of lonely sailors.
I hear they got lost in her eyes,
so lost no nautical device could guide them away.
Her ******* were covered by shells.
Sea shells that glowed their gratitude as they lay on her chest.
I hear she moved exactly like the ocean, or maybe the ocean mimicked her.
When I heard her voice,
it was like bubbles.
Like bubbles that begin at the bottom of the sea and run through the water to so delicately burst on the top.
But even delicate bubbles have capacity for violence.
We, they, you, have reverence for a voice they tell stories about.
Her face shone like the ripples of light at sunset that stunned the sailors in awe.
Her hands, smooth like pearls.
Her lips, tantalizingly terrifyingly beautiful as all the reefs the wrecked the ships.
I knew a mermaid girl once. She had long blonde hair and she smoked tobacco underwater.