Her blood is on my hands as I slowly pull the life out of her.

I can hear her howl as she curses the pain
I feel the power course through her body like crashing waves as she struggles through this ancient ritual
Each labored breath is taken strategically and deliberately, and with it a crescendo begins; initiated by a ****** prior
Rising now, steadily, as steam off a ***.
Boiling.
Screaming.
Screaming.

Cut.

A soft cry.

A steady stream of congratulations and oxytocin.

A baby is born.

"What are you doing up?", she said.
"Listening to music; atoning for my sins"
Nothing good happens after 1 am
Followed shortly by time spent drowning out the silence and finding out who I am.

This is the first time I've written all year
I drove down to the library today
I sat in the car for half an hour before enough was enough
I haven't seen you since Tuesday and I'm leaving later tonight

"You're my rock", she said.
Let's hope the stories aren't true and I don't sink

Only fools fall in love and I'm stuck with a bunch of high schoolers in a jester's hat.

I listened to Local H on the ride to meet you
We listened to Jack on the way back
You can pick the songs on the radio
and I'll try and find the words I can sing to you

You can pick the time that I can meet you
and I'll try and find a way so that I can keep you

I won't easily forget the way her lips curled when she smiled, or her green eyes which pierced through mine -- successfully interrupting any thought I was supposed to have at that moment.

Even beauty pays a **** high price, however, when paired with the certain death of differing intentions, and we were in no place to bargain. That leaves me now with the slowly fading memory of her soft red hair twisted gently around my fingertips and the array of colors in her bedroom which greeted me as I not-so-willingly awoke to her alarm on those icy cold winter mornings. However I am also aware that I would do well to put these memories to rest, so as to allow for a beauty who aligns more properly with a path I intend to follow.

She said,
"You're not the man I knew. We are not the same and we can not go back.
I don't want to hurt you, but you know how this has to end."

The lights fade, she won't be back.

I know I wasn't perfect but now you've made me utter ****.
I am so much worse now than before and I'm so glad I have you to blame.
So I'll use this bottle to fade the lights

Go to black, go to black, to black...

The world is spinning, the world is spinning, spinning...

But I AM STILL.

This is your fault.
*******.
**** the world.
It's all on them.
Take me back.
I hate you.
Please call.
Die.

Drink.
Forget.
Repeat.

Oh God.
It was me.
And it always will be until I fix it.

Our relationship is like a dance;
With graceful motions drawing us ever closer
It's just I've never heard this music before
and I'm doing my best to stay in step.

I'm bound to **** up.
But please don't give up on me yet.
When this story finds its end please know that through it all I swear I was trying.

Just don't give up on me yet.

I speak normally when in the company of normal people who enjoy normal things.
I speak inappropriately with my friends.
I think incoherently in my head and when I begin to drink too much cheap whiskey I talk to myself in bathrooms.

When I write I attempt to speak eloquently but I can't do that when I speak in bathrooms
or in my head
or with my friends
or when in the company of normal people who enjoy normal things

                                         so I usually just go to sleep.

In my dreams I speak to children
and monsters
and ex-girlfriends.

I don't know why I speak so many different ways to so many different people.

I want to speak with my hands but they refuse to speak with me. My hands only speak to the women who I hint at love with. I don't know what my hands say but it must not be very nice because the women eventually stop hinting back.

I want to teach my hands to speak kindly and warmly, but not sweatily, and to only occasionally speak the way I do with my friends.

I spent some time on the river and for awhile told people I was a sailor.
I casually explained how I spent my days surrounded by nothing but the blue; battling creatures of the deep and Mother Nature herself in her greatest venue.
But that was only my imagination.

I walked in the woods by my house for an afternoon and for awhile told people I was a hunter.
I recalled times where I'd spent days on end stalking my prey, moving swiftly and silently through the colossal forests I'd grown to call my home; relying solely on myself and my primal instincts to stay alive.
But that was only my imagination.

I wrote some words and for awhile told people I was poet.
I regaled them with elaborate stories woven with imagery and emotion, which were crafted with the greatest of ease. I revealed that with a simple tale I could draw a tremendous crowd, and have the children laughing while the adults sat misty-eyed, reminiscing on days past.
But that was only my imagination.

I considered giving the vagrant on my corner some change and for awhile told people I was a famous tycoon.
I briefly described my youth spent earning my millions with a cutthroat ferocity, but also how I was now defined by my remarkable philanthropy. I was adored by the masses for my role as a model of charity.
But that was only my imagination.

I spent some time with a girl and for awhile told myself I was in love.
I knew that we were happy and nothing would ever change. I dreamed that our love would grow with each and every passing day, while we grew old in each other's embrace.

                                     But that too was only my imagination.

Oh what can be said about the past 18 months is nothing more than the muttering of an unintelligible lie about how great things went.

As I saw you last night,
with your sleeves pulled up to your knuckles as they always were,
which when placed next to your face seemed like some half-minded effort to conceal the emotions which your ever-changing eyes always betrayed, the swirl of emotions in my head raged ever violent.

You have the same attractive qualities as a car crash, and you slowed me down on my journey in just the same way.

I am singing you this song to let you know you're not alone
That I was wrong, you were right
It was dumb to try and fight the rising tides of all my lies

But oh my dear to my surprise
Little less, a little more
I found you standing in my door

So we can dance till 3 am
and I'll let you know who I really am

If nothing more
When the morning comes
We'll be back again, my love.

My love...

Oh God.
The noises, the voices.

Where have they gone?

To drive them away is the insanity
Utter madness in the false name of serenity.

Here and there.
In the trees.
In the basements.
On the road.
On the couches.
At 2 A.M.
In the dead of night.
The same places they've always been.

Still searching.
The noises, the voices.

Oh God.

Some people fear creatures
Others phantoms and ghosts
Put aside all these worries
and you'll see what frightens me most

Is not anything corporeal
No, nothing you can see
What scares me the most
is the disapproval of a younger me

"I like this girl": the most frightening proclamation my mind can make.
For you see once I do land upon that revelation, my brain becomes a ticking clock until the day it all dies.

I can make you like me. I've done it before and I'll do it again.
For some people, that is the only issue but for me I can do it without much thought.

What I can't do is make you stay. I can have you telling me that I mean the world to you, and I can tell you the same thing.

Sometimes I might even be telling the truth.

But no matter the situation there will come a day where you will walk out that door
and never come back.

So what do I do?
Should I lie in bed and wait for the world to either end or come to me?
Should I write some sappy ******* line and just stare at my notebook?
Should I go out and show the world what I can do?
What can I do?

I don't give two *****.
I'm 19. Do you hear me? 19. The world isn't ******* ending tomorrow.
I like this girl. 1st grade math was more complicated than this.
So, I don't care how long you decide to stay. I'm just happy you came over.
I'm not hopeless, just romantic and these days my time is spent thinking about you,
so let's end this charade and see what happens.

And I'm not trying to write this just to sway your mood or decisions.
I'm just saying that if we were colors, I'd be blue and you'd be yellow.
Not because they go together or some nonsense like that, but because "***** it, we're colors, the world is a better place"

I guess what I'm trying to get at is life's short.
I can sit here all day and whine and be mad at all the shortcomings in my life and I can try to rationalize where I've gone wrong and how to change you

but then I'd probably miss a whole bunch of yellows.