people say that they cut to feel in control
to feel in control of their ******-up lives
but when i held that blade and let
it slip across my skin,
i felt no control.
i felt no comfort.
the blade controlled me,
twisting who i was
into someone that i was not;
ripping my thoughts apart

don't pick up that blade.
don't ever pick up that blade.

I want
But that is greedy

I need
But that is vain

I love
But that is filthy

So I settle

And I am met by an old friend
Disappointment

and his cousin

Mediocrity

And I am unhappy
And they call me names

Like Humble
and Kind
and
a good ******* Samaritan

Because Black is the new blue.
and happiness is the new sin.
and life is the new death.

And you can't let your self live
because life is full of sin.

"And there is no escape but detachment,"

the building is covered by rain
it pitter patters on the roof
like quiet whispers to the ear
by an unknown breath
I cringe at the neck
too close

where are you?

rain flows from the cracks
on the wall
the windows are crying.
the paint is damp and cold
and peeling.

I am on my bed
shivering
lonely
waiting
to be drenched.

the room is filled
with rain

the floor, invisible
my bed floats
as the waves lick my sheets
I am cold

the falling of rain
the sloshing of waves
sounds encircling me like arms
touching my cheek
my hair
my lips

arms that
hold me by the neck
crashing raindrops like the banging in my chest
I cannot breathe.

I read back old conversations
and they are not our voices
they are muffled sounds
underwater

for there is a way
to utter words
the words that i could never string together
just as there is a way
to say goodbye
for now and forever

long agonizing nites
Spent running like
Dog show enthuisists
The ukanuba muts (our crew)
Have names
And cold plates of
Meat loaf waiting
For them
When the noise
Of old boots
Warns the couch
About our irival
ill be away from
Home some where
Adventerous like the
Green hills of affrica (Hemmingways worst knovel)
Getting the perfect
Shot on the rhino three hundread
Yards away in the straw grass
Watering hole.
He falls like frozen patatoes
And my day closes
Half full
Half golden like
Whiskey on
The burning slopes
Of tacomas
Blue collared ridges.
Flooding the flood
Of endless floods
Inside my nitecaps
Hidden shot glass.
Thats the only way
We all sleep before
Tomorow brings out
Our best jokes.
The only pride we
Can find after
To many hours of
Half finished sandwhiches
So we can make room
And stare into
The welcoming fridge.
Good nite tacoma
I need all the double
Shifts we can get
Before we all find a new
Paying gig.

And I will love every second of it.

sometimes I think of you and die inside. and I end up crying in bathroom stalls. I miss you. I miss you.

sometimes I want to send you all these books I've read because they remind me of you but the truth is that no two people read the same book, no two people are in the same relationship, a conversation  is not shared, a moment, a laugh, a look. We were never a we. There was a you and an I. A you with your thoughts and an I with mine.

sometimes I think that perhaps if I write you letters. endlessly. endlessly. and put them all into a box I would eventually come to realize that there will never be a possibility of you replying to them. And you turn into nothing more than a thing in the distance that my voice will be unable to reach. and slowly. slowly. I will accept that you have gone. that how we are is no longer what we once were and that we can never be that again.

we used to refer to each other as "home". are you a wandering vagabond just like me? are you a homeless, restless, soul? are you like Julian's tourist? I am. I am. I am. You were my ultimate symbol of acceptance. and now nowhere is safe. I have taken to walking the streets every chance I get. Every time my mind is not locked on some book. on some lecture. on some dream. I am walking. walking. walking. It is the only way I can survive. to stop. to pause. would only bring me to the loss of you. it is this reality I run from.

I read book upon book to escape you. blare music to my ears til I'm dead. but all the words contain you. every line has you. the songs sing in your voice. you are everywhere. there is nowhere to run.

I'm sorry for being too much like Tereza, you deserved more than that.

and I am too scared to open my journal.