My heart beat stopped with a wimper
like a cry swallowed by the night. Stifled
by the
prettiest
little
monster.
Hair like Hell-fire licking the sides of
her face tracing cheeks like lips in the dark.
Fangs hidden behind smiles and honeyed words
that put me at ease as easy as a lullaby.
I am the perfect victim and she is
the prettiest little monster.

She only tells the truth
in the mornings.
Sunlight cracking through
the windows across her
face just as sure as the grin
that I put across her face.
Whispered words that
make her grin echo across
my face.

She only tells the truth
in the mornings,
but I wouldn't trade the nights
for the world.

And all of my cigarettes taste
stale since you've become
concerned with my health.

Enthralling. Captivating.
These are the words you
spoke under your breath
just loud enough for me
to hear. For you to hear.
I find myself clinging
to your words like
a child to a blanket,
warm, comfortable.
A barrier that I slip around
my skin the way your fingers
trace my side, my thighs, my fingers.
Words chosen as carefully as all
the boys broken at the bottom
of your toy chest. I still long
to hear you say those four
little words again.
"You're more than that."

They say if you believe in something
enough, it'll happen.
I believe in nothing, and it happens
every single day.

"An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way." -Charles Bukowski in Notes from a ***** Old Man (1969)

It's always been like this.
The intellectual and the artist
ripping each other to shreds in my head
like wolves in winter, so desperate to eat.

The teeter-tottering back in forth
has left me as barren as my ambition.
Soulless homunculus. A perfect rendition
of a man, but still lacking.

Will I ever find a balance
between emotional and intellectualistic
murmurs? These unheard whispers
whistle in the dark while I weep alone.

String me up like a marionette.
Pull my strings, watch me dance.
Dance my way through relationships,
friendships, sinking ships.
Watch me give you an Oscar-gold
performance. You can't tell that
I'm as hollow as the o in love.
As hollow as your smile
to everyone but me.