The clock strikes three
No place I'd rather be
Allow me to say something
It's heartbreaking to see
What we've created is gone
Now, we're moving on
I'm tattered and torn
Before my heart is reborn

Today I will write a poem
not about your face
and how beautiful
and sublime it is

Today I will write a poem
not about my love
and how it is about you
and only you

Today I will write a poem
not about your love
and how it is not about me
and how it deeply hurts me

Instead, I will write a poem
about us, only us
except that
there is no us

Are my words worth reading?

How long does it take you to decide?

3 lines in?

Maybe 4?

If you made it this far, what do you think?

Do you think my words will be

Only just what you want to see?

Words of love or pain

or whats lost or maybe found?

Could this be written in blood

trickling down my fingertips?

Could my words be only yawns

and sighs or relief or retreat?

Could they be calls....

warning the the weary wanderer

reading.

Could my words mean nothing

Just plain, empty ink

sprawled across the smooth white plain?

Could I have wasted your time?

Wasted each movement of your eye

as it pans across the cold, hard screen.

You tell me.

You're the one who read this far.

"Loving her was like shaking hands with the devil. "
Loving her was a soft suicide.

A bottle of pills and a warm bath,
candles lit around your head like a glowing halo.

Loving her was a steady shock.

A fork in an outlet and a buzzing in your spine.
Loving her was the agony of a quick snap of a bone.
The long ride to the emergency room,
listening to music you never liked.
Especially not now.

Watching her leave was almost worse.

Almost better.

It was the swift pain of a steel toed boot in the
soft part of your stomach.
The gasp of the crowd in the busy bar.
The realization no one was going to step in and help.

Yes, loving her was surely relentless, inevitable pain.

So you turned into a person who kissed feet and
fell to their knees.
Bandaged yourself up and then asked to bleed a little more.
And the truth is..

You almost liked it.

God is a lie.
I know this because you are Jesus himself.
Suicide watch you are but a sham.
A wolf in sheep's clothing.

I love you when we are naked.
I love him when he is inside me.
******. Fall. Climb.

I love him when he is kissing me.
Open mouthed gasps fall heavy.

He tells me he doesn't want to touch me too much-
he might get attached.

I wish he was sewn into my organs,
threaded between my ribs and heart.

He tells me how he will be murdered.
It runs in his family.
Premeditated death is practically genetic.
Something in his DNA that tells others:
**** THIS.

I just wish he would strangle me.
I wish he would spill my blood like communion and eat my flesh.
A church choir somewhere in the background hums.
The bells proceed to toll.

I am not afraid of him.

He tells me of his evil..
Something that slips in when he is sleeping.
Some part of him I have only caught glimpsing through his shame.

Something I can relate to.