it's astonishing
how swiftly
this disease moves.

it's gotten to be
this familiar pattern,
an ugly ebb and floe-
agonizing stretches
of nothing, just numb silence
and tense conversations,
with brief reprieves
of manic glittering highs.
it builds and builds
until it bursts, and not
in any extraordinary way.
it's usually while
engaged in some menial task
like brushing my teeth
or eating a turkey sandwich,
and suddenly it's suffocating me
and my hands are shaking
and all of my words are gone.
this is the phase
of delicious self-loathing
and bone deep sadness,
where it almost feels good
just to feel something real-

until i'm spinning out,
heaving out months of nothing
in back-breaking sobs
in the middle of the week
on my lunch break
and they're all asking
what's wrong
with their faces
******* up into
genuine concern
and, ****,
they've almost
found me out.

i regroup,
smile like i mean it
and say i'm getting help;
let emptiness consume
as i dive into the grey.

It's two in the morning,
it's always two in the morning
when nothing seems right
and your smile haunts
and lingers in my periphery.

It's two in the morning
and one candle flickers
in the corner of this
dark and hallowed room.
Etta James plays on repeat
and any stranger looking in
might attribute this scene
to something like love.
Maybe it's halfway there,
as he says my name
in between breaths that take
most of my air, and heartbeats
that drum staccato.
Maybe, just for a moment,
as I shut my eyes
and scream into the darkness,
filling the spaces beneath my nails
with the flesh on his chest,
and my whole body is aglow
with inescapable pleasure-
maybe I love him in that
brief reprieve.

It's two in the morning
and I'm rolling onto my side
over sticky white sheets.
He looks at me
as the singular flame
dances and casts shadows
that paint the arch of my hips
against the stucco,
and he tells me
that he loves me,
and I can't figure it out.
Maybe it's because the light
is so forgiving,
softening this look
of bone deep sorrow
and sickening nostalgia
into something like affection.

Or maybe you were always right
when you called me a sociopath
or a shameless narcissist.
Maybe I like playing with fire-
getting as close to love as possible
before disappearing, before
committing one more satisfying
act of self sabotage.

It's two in the morning,
and he's looking at me
like he means it
but I can't stomach it.
I've been asking for it
and now the words
just sit there, shining
in the candle light
and they're sickening
and nothing feels right
because he's made the same
mistake as all the others-
he isn't you.

bodies awash with
sin and self loathing-
we fold into mutual
affections
like water.

pinpricks of light
force holes through
the curtains
and I hold your gaze,
mathematical
and steady.

my thoughts stumble
over broken lips
to bleed out into
the space between us
like a spring pig
at the slaughterhouse

and you smile,
trace my jaw
with your index finger,
but the words just
hang there
with the dust
glittering in the light.

touch me,
i'm real.
forgive me,
i'm ill.

It's the middle of the afternoon
and the street heaves
beneath the weight of
so much ordinary existence.

The leaves fall steadily,
matching their pace to
the unceasing rain and
painting striking contrasts
of crimson and umbre
against the grey sky.

The woman next door
is screaming
and the grief and terror
that catches at her throat
is palpable amidst this
ordinary scene.

Solid things suddenly seem surreal
when they are choked in sorrow,
and I feel like a statue
dialing 911 with marble fingers
as she runs from demons
that will plague her forever.

The dispatcher gives directions,
and step by step,
I try to recreate feelings
like compassion and empathy,
as if that could be enough
in this startlingly raw moment
to calm someone who is
coming apart at the seams.

She won't look at me,
she is not here.
I can feel the grief
in her voice like porcelain,
and I can taste it-
like ice chips.
But I'm not here either,
I'm just holding this emotion
in my hands, numb.

The ambulances come
and take her lover away
beneath a white sheet
and I can hear the police radios
shrieking suicide
as everyone stands
on the sidewalk,
enjoying the show.

And I retreat into
my quiet home,
still holding this
porcelain grief
like a talisman.
I sit down
at the kitchen table
and turn it round and round,
trying to understand
where it fits
in this ordinary
Wednesday afternoon.

Organic electronic sounds
reverberate throughout
this closed up room,
and I am swathed
in crisp white sheets
and indigo delirium.

The sun slips in and out
between the leaves
holding their breath
outside my window,
and I inhale
air that is heavy
with lost words
and melancholia.

The walls are grey here
and they call for sleep
and great cerulean silences,
things that might heal.
But old lovers keep on
sending messages
like Morse code
and new lovers
cut their teeth on
my collarbones,
smiling at the novelty
of a pretty face and
a sick mind.

I feel out of place
in the summertime-
oversized and awkward,
forcing smiles that
crack and peel
and pretending
that I am bold
that I am unaffected
that I am ready
as I shove black thoughts
back down into
silent fissures.

Now fall is creeping in
with great grey plumes
of september clouds
and all of those slippery
dark thoughts bubble up
and out to settle
in every corner.

And I vacillate
from mind-numbing
sorrow and overwhelming
exhaustion to
glittering highs
from the beauty of it all-
the contrast is acutely
melancholic and
sweet at once.

I pour out feelings
that stick to my canvas
and make love
in shallow pools
of moonlight
and smile at something
that feels real
and I am bold
I am unaffected
I am ready.

I miss you
sometimes
just enough
so that it hurts.

When I feel like
I'm living in limbo,
one half step away
from falling apart,
I think of you
as a panacea
for all of the quiet thoughts
and dead stares.

When I find myself
painting canvases black
at three in the morning
and pressing my nails
into my wrists
just to feel
something,
I wish you were here
to coax me into bed
and kiss me
like you never did.

I miss you,
selfishly and
shamelessly.

And it twists
and slides through
my fingers like paint-
beautiful useless emotion.