Grotesque is a word reserved for Halloween, Asparagus, and my bathroom mirror.
A mirror that has never lied although there were times I asked it to.
The word is as descriptive as any in the English language
And it seems that it is synonymous with lonely and single.

While love is said not to ascribe to aesthetics.
I know for a fact, through experience, that attraction most definitely does.
So while love can exist for one that could be considered grotesque.
By all weights and measures, how is a person supposed to be loved,
When the other can't get the vomitous taste out of their mouth after looking at them?

Dark and dreary I know, but I've never been one to buy in.
To purchase the notion that one could look past, into what one is, before seeing how one looks.
Dismal outlook on the horizon I know but sometimes reality's worth crashing into.
Maybe I'm wrong, God I hope so.
Because if I'm wrong there's a future.
If I'm not
. . .

There will never be a forever me
But don't worry about my demise
Don't worry about how you treated me
Just file yourselves inside
The double doors will fit you all
I'm sure they'll open wide.
When the preacher starts he'll say something wise.
But don't worry about my demise

I won't have to worry about what is said
I'm sure they're  mostly lies
Maybe he'll say, "he lived and loved"
To which I'd laugh and say
"The preacher man, he got one right,
At least until today."
He'd continue his speech you'll dry your eyes.
But don't worry about my demise

It wasn't that love came hard for me
In fact it often came too quick
It was poorly timed oft undermined
By friends who said they cared
They never believed my love was real
So don't worry about my demise

And on that day of my demise
I hope at least one will say
"I loved him more, but never said
The words we all should say.
"Sometimes love is a rotten beast who steals and cheats and lies.
He deserved more from each of us.
Or someone before his demise."

Something clouds my head and heart.
Creating an emotional *******.
A beggar
Limping and crawling from place to place
I try to feel
But I can't
It's drained my heart
I collect alms in the shapes of tear drops and hearts.
Hoping to someday walk again
"Perhaps he did this to himself,"
They'll say as they pass me and ignore.
"What would he do with, what we hand him out,"
As they excuse away their indifference.
Little do they realize
That just one lift
One helping hand
That would make all the difference.

I was broken years ago,
Shattered on the ground.
I looked for help to pick me up,
But no one was around.
As my pieces went overlooked,
They became so spread about
It was hard to find myself
So spread, my future was in doubt.
Some of me stayed in the middle
Crushed under sole and foot.
Other pieces hid in corners
Avoiding more pain or hurt.
The last of me escaped you see
It was pushed under the shelf.
Those pieces would never be seen again.
Causing me to be less of myself
I wished someone would clean me up
Put my pieces together again.
But here I laid under toe and heel.
Spreading further and further again.
My hope is one day to gather myself
To put together what's left to see.
It might take awhile to find them all
These shattered pieces of me.

Sometimes I wish these tears,
Were held in my head
that they were packaged and labeled
Citing date, cause, and emotion.
I'd scribble box upon box with something like:

Date: December 25th 2005
Cause: First Christmas Without Dad
Emotion: Misty Eyed Sadness.
Or
Date: June 8 2002
Cause: Recognition. Of a Job well done.
Emotion: Humbled Elation

Sure the boxes would stack up.
Reaching heights unfathomable.
And so I'd sort.
Keeping each emotion in their own piles.
Neatly selecting which ones to put in the front stacks
And which ones to keep hidden from view,
So as not to accidentally expose my problems,
Or remind myself of things I wish to forget.
Instead I'd neatly stack them out of sight.
Perhaps the stacks will fall one day.
Cluttering my head.
It's possible
Some may even be forced open.
Forcing me to repack and
Restack.

Kiss me hard
To remind my lips
That this was what we waited for.
That this plunge into a sea of passion
While unsafe and daring
Was worth the trouble
Was worth the searing heartache.
A heartache that once broke me
Long ago.

Kiss me long
So that my heart
Will never forget love once existed inside
And it was more than a blistering passion
It was true and sturdy
Built upon our trust
In ourselves, in each other
In what we are building
For our future.

Kiss me soon
To prove to my mind
That this isn't a dream.
That this isn't a hazy alternate reality
Where you will disappear
The next time my eyelids rest.
Make it quick so this moment
Won't die in vain.
Kiss me.

My words try to escape
But my tongue is unwilling
They stick in a spiderweb of fear
Entwined in the sticky silk of terror.
Never to be devoured
They linger.

Would it be worse
If they somehow
Worked themselves free
And found the ear
they had been searching for all along.
But still they're stuck

Hovering, these ghosts,
Of passion once felt and feared
And words wished said,
Keep me up nights.
Knowing and not knowing
What would you have said?

A book shouldn't be judged by its cover they said.
A person should be judged on their heart they said.
Plenty of books go unread
They are too small
Too thick
Too old
Too beat up

People and love have the same fate as a book.
Love is hypocritical.
How can an emotion, that is said to be
Judged by the heart,
Consider the optical cortex's opinion.
Before it weighs a soul
Hypocrites.

Predators are lead by their sight as well.
Killing off prey
In blood lust
That is interesting.
Perhaps lust is the issue
Their eyes devour what they want
While the heart is left empty.

If I lose weight am I subscribing to this belief?
Am I not fit enough to be loved?
Would being devoured by predators truly mend my heart?
My windowless soul bleeds.
While their eyes ignore me.
Am I changing myself to be loved, or
Can love change itself to find me?

She married a dead man
She didn't know at the time
But he died before she had ever met him
Heart first
Soul second

He died the summer after his sophomore year of college
When he was crushed
By loves pavement likeness
His girlfriend at the time
Told him it was over
And proceeded to string him along until
One morning in August he went to surprise her
And after several of his calls went to voicemail
He traversed the steps to her apartment
And knocked on door 401.

He was greeted by a large fellow named Mike who asked in a limited vocabulary
Who he thought he was?
And why would he interrupt
An intimate moment between Mike and Mike's side piece?
Although he was confused by Mike's use of third person
The expletives Mike chose were both clear in their intensity and intent.

He was never sure how he got to his car
Perhaps he had floated down the stairway
Then again maybe he skipped the short jaunt altogether
And teleported.
He reached his dorm room, and there
He was sure his heart died
And it had.

See his heart first bled out empathy,
Then sympathy and later trust
The cold ***** let go of love last of all.
Only hours before his future wife had met him.
She was life support the yellow streak  in his grey sunset.
She loved him like only she could
With trust, truth and devotion,
And his heart still died

But that death didn't keep him
From marrying her 6 years after his heart's eulogy was read.
And while her patience waned and
His chilly heart
Hid the truth from her
She loved him

And though it took 3 years
She realized
Someone had killed their love.
Before they even knew what they shared.
Salted the soil of their romance,
And rather than move on
Her love was stuck,
He and his dead heart
Were no longer moving forward ,
But in the most real way
His heart was dead.
Killed by an unrequited love.
Long before now.

My tears fill the well that was designed for them.
Soon traveling down my cheeks and chin.
As creeks or streams might allow a mountain's rainy day runoff,
To gently pass over stone.
Triggered by a scent, a sound, a thought,
A dagger like sting from a memory of,
What could have been.
Perhaps the fearful gaze upon a future
That may lay ahead.

And so they fall.
Dying my eyes red.
In silence, I try to gather my thoughts,
Odd for someone whose thoughts
Placed him in this predicament
And as I stack them.
Neatly. I might add.
The breeze of your memory knocks them to the floor.
Again.
Because this has happened before.

You have done this to me once again.
This time your presence wasn't even necessary.
To cause this cascade of solemnity.
But I realize that sadness,
Isn't what I endure.
Rather reflection,
Similar to the one emerging on the countertop,
Under my chin
That grows with every drip and drop,
Grants that sadness has left me,
But each memory's searing pain
Doses me with lonely regret of squandered opportunity.
Which stabs at my heart.

The dripping soon subsides,
And with face stained scarlet.
I wipe away the remnants
Of my rainfall.
From face and counter.
And prepare the shielded smile.
That has protected me,
Since you left.
I prepare my next joke
Buttoning it from intro to punchline
Hoping that it garners a laugh.
So that, even if vicariously,
I can smile.

I died inside and shut the door
Just climbed inside, but just before
I slammed it shut, I saw you there
The only soul to look with care.
You saw this boy. You saw my tears.
I'd hid both well throughout the years.
You found my inward river flow.
That's filled me up, my hollow soul.

I'd lost some things since I was young
All my feelings except for one.
See emptiness had chose to stay,
And dig a hole in which to play.
The dirt he scooped was made of me
My likes, my cares, my hopes and dreams.
The hole he made just grew in size
Enough to hide me deep inside.

The tears I cried they filled the rest
Soaked inside out this hollow chest.
My lonely cave, this empty soul
These shovel-fulls had took their toll
And so I hid, as our eyes met
I latched the door without regret
I'd had too much to stop this train
The breaks were gone, just too much pain.

So just don't knock leave me alone.
My hollowed hole is my new home.
Inside these walls is where I'll stay.
Don't write, don't call just go away.
These four walls, a haven I've made,
Save me from what was dug away,
But still keep me from moving on
This door, these walls, could this be wrong?

I know it's hard to believe,
But I've never fallen into love.
No really, I've never fallen.
It's always been more like
Drowning.

While others gently dive in,
Barely disturbing the surface,
And then relax as they calmly float in their warm bath of emotion.
I cannonball.
To the bottom.
And as love is dispersed all over the other patrons, disturbing their peaceful swims.
I force my face to the surface.
Gasping, pleading.
For another breath.
Then as if i am grabbed by the ankle,
My head goes under again,
My fingers grasp at anything,
Hoping, praying.
That something solid might materialize at their tips,
I continue this pattern of bob and flail.
Never finding a rhythm.
Disturbing those floating near by.
Until the thought comes to mind,
As I receive stares from others
Who pass judgment on me through their piercing pupils,
"Maybe I'm doing this wrong?"

Calloused is defined as having a hardened area of skin.

But I would venture to guess
That if you looked at my heart
And compared it to
My feet and my hands
That my feet and my hands
Would be in better shape.
See manicures and pedicures exist
But regardless of all the wear on my heart.
There's no procedure that can soften it.

Life has taken sandpaper to me.
Marring me through
Missteps in love
And searing loss.
Leaving me hardened,
Which served its purpose,
At least I wouldn't be easily hurt anymore.

I avoided love.
Not out of fear, I'd tell myself,
But because I was done looking for it.
I'd tell people that I was waiting for love to find me.
And so I'm still waiting
Or hiding.
From the fear of opening up.
From the fear of softening.

It's hard to be yourself
When you know that
You're scarred
Or scared
Or both.
So the callouses come in handy.
Keeping me from pain and hurt.

Actually, I prefer the term hardened to calloused.
Simply for the sake of finding a better connotation.
I'd rather be hardened by my circumstances
Than calloused by them.
I'd rather be hardened by the hurt
Than calloused by it.
And if loss were to strike me in the face again,
I'd rather be hardened,
Instead of calloused.

But if you'd grab a dictionary
You wouldn't be fooled by my attempt,
At clever wordplay.
You'd realize that both are the same,
And that whatever I'd chosen to call myself
Didn't matter.
I was still as broken as ever.
Still scarred.
Still scared.
As hardened
As calloused
As ever.