My heart is curled in my chest, sitting low; it can't be bothered.
You and I are both deaf. You cannot hear me screaming for you and I cannot hear myself wailing "STOP."
Even the tips of my fingers cry out and good lord does it burn;
All of this is deliciously hateful and ******* it - it should be illegal to make another human being feel this way.
We are no longer a mixture dear, we are a solution. I am saturated with you. There is no going back.

Why do I want you to write psalms on my body in ink blacker than night?
Mark me up, please.
Cut, cut, cut.
I am whining and desperate for you.
We are inextricable.
Oh, you must abhor me!

I can feel my hopelessness in my legs
They’re all sort of settled, sinking into the bed like logs into soft loam
burrowed into by all manner of insects,
hardening their tongues into little tubes and ******* out my flesh with a mighty slurp.
I have found that I exist in a perpetual sigh
apart from every once in a while, when I pause to eat and sleep and watch a car go by with one headlight out at 12:53 in the morning.
I whisper a heathen's prayer that this gross longing exists somewhere outside of myself. I have to find a wall far away and break it down. I don’t want to get trapped under my own rubble anymore. Better to be drowned than crushed.

I am not the ocean.
The ocean cannot fit in a drugstore at nine pm, blinking up at fluorescent lights
hearing giggling
being ashamed.
The ocean drowns the people inside her, if she wants to or cradles them but, I?
I am drowned. I am cradled. Held and held down by so many tides, so many hands,
ever-changing never-staying.
The ocean commits herself, she stays put, she holds open her palms and whispers
"I am not afraid to let you stay here. I am not afraid of you, exploring my depths."
I am not the ocean.

During our last move we made
sure to pack:
all the paraphernalia, both
toothbrushes, most of our clothes,
old pictures, broken ashtrays,
tools we didn't know how to use,
the computer, both cats, commitments,
all the shot glasses, a bed,
and your unsolved Rubix cube.
It all fit in the car.

We left behind the couch that
one of the cats ****** on,
the shower curtain liner, every
working Bic lighter, your sanity,
the Monopoly game, two new
pens, one old pen (no ink)
and a bag of marshmallows,
plus one hell of a mess.

During the move we misplaced
our sense of direction, a suitcase
full of only my clothes, logic,
and a globe that doubled as a
lamp.

***** given?
Zero.

We still had both cats.