I am not a gambler
or a mystic or any sort of
self-righteous prophet
but there are sometimes
these small things
that glimmer with certainty.

Small things that pinpoint
the ****** of everything
in the deep, vast universe
converging on this
slim chance.

Its the sensation that
the words are there
on the tip of my tongue,
dangerously close
to slipping out into space
where you might hear them
and love me,
love me too.

We are edging toward
the crest of December-
it looms, unforgivingly
over the horizon.

My mind is filled
with thick paints
and heavy smoke.
You stand askance
like some forgotten
silhouette,
begging for reprieve
in the waning moon glow.

I drink a little more,
and create tangible feelings
on tepid surfaces-
working like a madman
to keep the wolves at bay.

And I care about you
a little bit less
every day.

slip like silt,
just as you always did,
into smooth discordance-
leaving knives disguised
as words synonymous with love
pressed against my throat.

fold like origami cranes
and take flight when
the monsters emerge
from the spaces between
the floorboards,
when you look at me
and see a stranger.

I don't blame you.

romanticizing the images
of clenched fists
and bloodshot eyes,
I twist around my vices
like a serpent.

I wanted the idea.
You and I, nothing too grand;
just this simple love,
the likes of which
you could feel in your cells
and in your bones.

I wanted a love
where you'd bury me
so that the ache
of missing you
wouldn't sit inside
my chest like a stone.

And now we talk
like old friends,
and you still look at me
with that smile
and it makes me queasy,
how far removed these bodies are
from the ones we shared
in convoluted memories.

I don't blame you.

Blue wind encapsulates
in the midst of this ephemeral
autumn madness,
and my hands shake
as I try to forget.

I am just a human,
small and faulted,
trying like hell to squelch
the siren songs
of these maniac thoughts
buzzing like bees
through the empty spaces
within my skull.

I am just a silent body
and grey matter processing
words and colors
that feel truer
than any cheap emotions.

Cold light illuminates
and sparks nostalgia
and I am just
two eyes
retreating
into the mist.

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.