Maybe it’s the familiarity of what I once

enjoyed or maybe it’s the alcohol

acting as the conduit for this electrifying

relapse down memory lane since one wrong turn had

me at the door step of an addiction that

I long forgot about but I think somehow it’s different

this time, maybe my tolerance level has gone up,

since the buzz

just isn’t as strong

as it used to be.

Pour your pain into my mug.
Let it steep until it’s as bitter
as the red wine sipped by new lovers
or the coffee drank by the lonely man.
Let it steep until it’s too strong to taste.


Then let me sip it slowly
while my lips curl away in disgust.
Still, I’ll force it down ignoring
how tepid and foul
the taste of your pain coating
my throat might be.

I’ll breathe in the toxins,
allowing them to fill my insides with the wafting
vile stench of your struggles
until my head spins and my vision blurs.

Let me free you from your sorrow;
until it corrupts my heart,
intrudes my impenetrable armour,
eats me alive,
and rots me from the inside out.

You left and my bones turned to stardust

my heart to stone

collapsed on the bathroom floor

a pile of blood

your name the only thing

I spit from my lips

before I blacked out.


I called you

choking through blackened lungs

but you laughed and left me here

spit your poison in my wound


I awoke the next morning

with residue from the eight shots

of whiskey I chased down

in an effort to drown

the memories from the inside out

because your ******* face was still etched into

my ceiling from the night before.

Vision blurred by blinding rays

of amber coloured morning light

bouncing through the cotton curtain

climbing its way around the

valleys and hills of the body laying motionless

sleeping in its alcohol-induced slumber

contrary to the dust dancing merrily in the

golden yellow hues of the morning air

reinforcing the understanding of why

Van Gogh thought yellow

was the happiest colour.

It was late, of course, and the glow of the light
illuminated the dark shadows in the corner of my room.

Sitting with our limbs entwined
sipping on our second glass of wine,
we were discussing in our usual tired eye manner.
I watched as you pensively considered reincarnation.

“Maybe a blue jay or a lazy panda”, you said laughing
“or rather a busy otter or a black lab”.

I got quiet as I contemplated this idea.
Not sure whether I’d want to come back as an animal
or even another living thing.

While you raised your glass to your lips
I raised the question to myself and began to wonder
what it would be like to return as one of your ribs.

To be with you all the time,
perched quietly beneath the soft weight of your breast,
riding along under the soft fabric of your flannel shirts.

Maybe I’d return as your favourite rib,
if you even bothered to count,
which is what I did when you fell asleep that night.

The bare of your chest rising and falling,
gently firming and unfirming the shape of your cage,
hearing the slow of your breath as you relaxed.

My legs grazed the length of yours,
my fingers doing that crazy numbering thing
choosing which ribs I would like to perch
my reincarnated self between.

I wrapped my lips around the words
felt by my skeleton as it
washed up against the shore of this silver tongue;
drifting,
laying still on the bank of a river,
cracking open,
water swallowing it in shame.

It wasn’t supposed to go this far.

I watched your fingers list its way
around the empty neck of a brown bottle,
the fragility reminding us both
amount the damage of throwing stones
at houses made of glass.

I avoided your eyes
as I lifted my own bottle to my lips,
quenching the thirst of the calling demons
that scratched and clawed
the lining of my being.
Couldn’t let you witness
the poison as it forces it’s way out.

No matter how badly I needed to feel anchored,
I was better off, left to drown,
than to pull you under
the waves birthed by my lack of transparency.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I couldn’t look at you straight;
my eyes covered by the blurred goggles
of the alcohol consumed
seeing you only
through the gleaming vessels
wrenched in your palm.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I ordered another round,
unable to stand the spectrum cast
or the colours of truth
behind the conversations

The amber tint of the bottle
reflecting nothing, standing
as volatile and opaque as
the soul clinging to it.

I finished my beer,
let the backwash cast back,
from every thoughtless, selfish draft,
and forced it back.

“I have to go, I’m sorry.”

I left my money on the bar,
hoping it was enough to pay
our demons for the night.

Hastening in the sunset like foolish children
we watched as the yellow sphere tucked itself into the lake.

As night time fell,
I fell harder.
He had me in a trance
using his voice to pull me,
lure me,
he whispers
“the road is too long,
but the sky is calling”
Up
   Up
      Up
We flew while they slept
running lengths of the milky way
and doing loops around Saturn’s rings
only stopping once to visit the boy on the moon
not yet a man,
but in his innocence, he promised to light our travels
with the subtle glow of the moon.

He lead me all over the city
weaving us through tall buildings and low tunnels
forgetting the path well trodden
and forging our own way,
escaping reality and everyday monotony
forcing the dull, normal, tasteless days to separate
into 24 hour periods of potential for excitement.

We ran this one light town with our bodies floating through
the cement trees and brick mountains,
not letting fear cast a single shadow and
letting freedom take us to places unknown.

But as time kept slipping from our fingertips,
the last grain of sand began to fall;
he hurried to get me home.

We returned to make a blanket fort
and filled it with our memories of that night.
I settled into my cozy nest of pillows
and we stared out at the world we had just left.
I cuddled into his chest as he held me tight.
“Don’t let me go,
even while my feet are on the ground.”
As sleep took over my body,
I felt my night guide sneak back into the sky.

I didn’t stir when I saw his shadow leap from the window
in the soft light of the moon,
for I knew he would be back again,
when the great yellow sphere slipped back into the lake.

Streams run in rivulets
into the moist crevices
of her blemished skin
trickleling through the
curvasious channels
down her naked sides
while tiny droplets
of clarity continue to flow
through the valleys as she
sit quietly under the heavy
rain from silver springs
cleansing her past anxieties
drenching her in bliss

When I took my first hit of you
I never knew it’d be like this
that giddy head buzz
while it kills me from the inside
not around and I feel deprived
you’re killing me slowly
but I’ll disregard this
because I need a vice right now
so you can be the cancer in my lungs
the reason I can’t breathe
you’ll be in everything that hurts
pulling me down into an ocean of smoke
my blackened lungs will fill with you
but metaphorically I’ve already drowned

I will write meaningless poems about you
my nonexistent emotions fill blank pages
the invisible feelings will choke on the ink stained paper
disgorging emptiness becoming an extension of who I am.

but, my words still pour onto the page unwilling to stop for anything
a storm of letters against the hard white surface
which crash violently into one another
ending in a pile of bad clichés and broken pencil tips
solely because I can’t allow myself
to write meaningful poems
anymore.

We were sweat soaked sheets and *****.
Logic drowned.
Hungry lips among naked limbs,
a comfort sought in arms found.
We were stress released,
our playful violence unrestrained.
Each wanted. Searching within the other,
never properly attained.
We are fists of hair and clawed skin,
Finding ecstasy in pain.
The hurt from one another,
cover the other scars that still remain.

I traced stems on your back with my fingertips.
Rows of goose bumps lined your field of skin.
The bumps nestled softly along my fingertips.

I want to plant myself between your ribcage.
Grow closer with each beat of your heart,
blossom among your desire.

Perhaps tomorrow I can press petals into your neck;
knead leaves into the curves of your collarbones.
I want to grow with you, bury myself into your soul.

She sleeps with her arms cradling her body,
holding herself together as she lay.
Afraid she will come apart while her eyes are closed.

If you rip her open, a quilt of leftover pieces.
Pieces placed and abandoned.
Find a spot between the ribs where her heart used to be,
patch in your lies and your empty words.

Perhaps her frayed seams will finally split.
Tugging at the binding of her forearm and hand, she digs for proof.

She wishes to peel off every inch of skin sewn onto her bones,
to create a new canvas free of rips and tattered edges.

He whispers their name like a prayer,
says it carefully, beautifully as if it were the names of the goddesses.
He bathes them in praise
but is drowning them in holy water.
Repeating their sacred name
over and over and over,
blessed so that he can say he’s become enlightened
once he’s received the holy communion of their body
on his lips.

He’ll call them royals.
Dressed in purple
lifting them to their highest class,
placing them on a pedestal
sitting them, perching them delicately
on the throne held up by their womanly duties,
their feminine expectations.
He’ll call them his queens but in the end
he will commit treason against their realm.

Suddenly they’ll become a witch,
a hypnotist.
He says they enchant him.
Trance him with how they dress, move, breathe.
He’ll create signs of black magic in their eyes,
rituals in their steps,
and chants on their tongue.
Blaming his actions on theirs,
“they made me” he says
so he’ll have an excuse to curse them back.

I’ve got splinters in my smile from where
supporting beams were yanked away
lips tumbling to the ground.
Crashing into a pile of
cracked words and rotting promises
that they whispered into my mouth.

Come along and walk past the *******,
compiled from pieces of frontal lobes and broken vocal cords
unable to ever remember the vibrations
that once worked as a fireplace heating the soul.

But I invite you to rebuild.
Be my master builder.

Terminally ill,
infected with lust
curiosity and nerves.
Spreading like a virus,
your words crawl deep
into my veins.
Tongue numb,
lungs struggle
in the midst of this plague.

Embedded in my marrow,
festering in my throat
enclosed by bones,
guarded by ribs

The ache won’t leave, and I’m starting to wonder,
if my chest cavity is better off empty.

Be gentle with her
for the words of others have never done much
but break her esteem.
Caress her undesirable sides,
her spirit breaking thighs,
her disappointing arms
as you would the body of a thin woman.
Be patient with her,
tell her she is beautiful
because for ages,
society, peers, family
have treated her as though she was a blemish of humanity.

Trace the stretch marks along her sides with care
for she is always doing the opposite.
Treat her body with the respect and tenderness
that she yearns for.
Be patient with her,
take her in, savour her, swallow her naked body whole.

Do not get grumpy with her when she pulls her shirt down
during the sweaty collision of your tongues
for she is only trying to comfort herself.
Be patient with her,
instead whisper ‘you are beautiful’ into her skin and
leave kisses of assurance on her stomach.

While she kisses you
let her search for motive.
Expose your good intentions.
She will dust your lips for other girl’s prints
for lack of understanding why you’d choose her.
Be patient with her. It is not your fault.
It is not that she does not trust you.
it is that her soul is laced with disbelief and apprehension.

Listen to her when she voices her worries out loud.
Listen as her voice shakes and she confides in you.
Reassure her, be patient with her.
Wrap your words around her;
create a blanket of trust to keep her warm.

Let’s pretend these sheets are empty
and that I’ve died or something equally as irreversible.
Flown away with the last of the sparrows,
or carried by an autumn breeze.
Perhaps pulled into the depths of a surging wave,
or lost in the darkness of a grotto.
Running an old dirt path,
where thoughts of you cannot follow
and try to plead my return.

In years from then,
when I’ve forgotten the feeling of sunlight on my skin,
and when your prints finally leave my lips,
I’ll rest in peace,
knowing I saved you.

This addiction 
has the worst withdrawals.
They leave you feeling
completely empty and 
alone
until you get
the next hit.

Shaking in anticipation,
preparing for the next fix.
Face forward, inhale.
Hear your heart race through my head.
Pounding anxiously,
waiting.

Finally,
the collision creates a moment of pure ecstasy
in my addict body.
Pressed in close
to confuse your heartbeat
and the motion of your lungs.

The worst withdrawls,
but the best high.

Tears swelling behind the dam of my heart
still strong to Mother Nature’s abuse,
but fractured by years and
cracked by hands.

One day,
when my dam-of-a-heart is attacked,
beat down and broken,
when it floods this town with woe,
I swear, I swear,
I would find your prints branded on the
handle of a hammer.

In a group of strangers his hands are the most familiar while
spinning, fumbling, tumbling around until
his lips begin to eradicate the faint taste of a man once
held so close to my heart but now as he inches forward
as his drunken eyes lay solely on mine
I can’t help but let him play a while he
pulls me in close to lift the bruises from my neck
tracing the path of familiar lips
hiked by the others who reeked of cigarettes and cheap *****
a feeling too much like home