We haven't seen each other for three years and now you want to talk?
Fine, okay, let's talk.
Let's talk about how you took an impressionable kid and twisted them into what you wanted.
Let's talk about how the world revolved around you, according to you.
Let's talk about how you took my name, spit on it, and dragged it through the dust.
Let's talk about how when you had someone, they had to fight for you to let them go.
Let's talk about how I was the first to put you in your place
And now you want be to come crawling back?
Unbelievable.

Let's talk about how I never want to see you again.
Let's talk about how I never want to speak to you again.
Let's talk about how I never even want to think about you again.
Let's talk about how you can't touch me, now that I'm free of you.

And let's talk about all of this over the phone,
Because I can't stand to see your face.
Better yet, let's talk over text,
Because your voice itself makes me sick.
And when we're done —no, when I'M done—
Forget my name.
Forget my voice.
Forget my face.

I never want to hear from you again.
You're finished.

h.f.m.

I've picked my last fight, it seems
Broken face
Shattered ribs
Splintered bones
Loosing blood, warmth, life
Pain is my constant companion, my lover, my being
We're both fading, fading, fading fast
The best things come in threes, don't they?
Mother, father, child
Waking, sleeping, dreaming
Birth, life, death
Now comes the darkness, the emptiness, the cold
Didn't the weatherman predict a storm today?
But isn't that the sun come out?
It's really beautiful today, isn't it?

h.f.m.

Old soul
You've heard this all before
All the romantic platitudes that I might sway you with, that I might use to invoke your affection

Young body
You're sick and tired of this
Your physical form defining you and what you can think and what you can be

Immortal mind
You're already here and gone
Forever is long, but time doesn't exist, and you know you can do anything

Bird-like hands
You can't stand this
The inaction causing your fingers to flutter and alight and move on, restless and reckless

Seaside eyes
You can see it all
My heart laid bare and as tempestuous as the ocean before your feet, the waves reaching, reaching

Cosmic smile
You know the effect you have on me
Eye-teeth cutting the strings that tie me to earth, gravity is reversed, and we're among the stars

Phoenix heart
You burned the last time
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, let us rise and begin again.

h.f.m.

BIRDSONG
like a half-formed thought
like a
half-heard word
at the edge
of awareness
like a voice that called your
name but no one was
there
a mocking ghost of sound

BREATHING
In.
Out.
It's fine, then—
the air is too thin
can't breathe
heart trips
can't see
you're dying, then—
You're fine.
In.
Out.

MY ROOM
i feel like a stranger
sitting on my own bed
an intruder
an unwelcome guest
my gaze alights uneasily
and flickers away
why am i here?
i do not belong

SUNSHINE
Warmth hitting your back
Heating your skin
But there is ice in your chest
Untouched by dawn

THE COLOR BLUE
the sky is clear
unlike
your foggy mind
the sky is empty
unlike
your cluttered thoughts
the sky is blue, blue, blue
the color of this thing growing in your chest

MY EYES
unfocused
will not focus
blurred edges
vision, dark
vision, wandering
vision, gone
uncooperative
i will not cry
i can't

CLASS
the teacher's voice buzzing, buzzing
over your head
why can't you concentrate?
you look at the writing on the board
it is in a language you have forgotten how to read
time is a loop, this minute this minute this—

MY HEAD
stuffed with cotton
stuffed with useless facts
'thought' is wading through
a rotting marsh
as my mind
falls apart

MIRRORS
You look through
a window and see
a stranger
but the glass is backed
with silver.
The stranger, then
is really you.

MY HANDS
trace the blue veins
under skin of the wrist
the back of the hand
like a map to a strange place
knuckles as mountain ridges
palm-lines as valleys
a land that i am not sure that i can traverse
i know the stars better than the back of my hand
my hands, limp and empty

THE CITY
normally roaring with life
it feels muted
distant
this isn't your home
this isn't your home

EMPATHY
you feel numb
you don't feel at all
you feel angry
you feel wrong

WORDS
your only weapon
your last defense
stolen out from under you
like a
rug
these syllables turn to
ash on your tongue
before they can pass you lips
you cannot speak

SUNSET
the day
is over?
the day
had begun?

MY GUT
hollow
hungry
no, not hungry
but something close

maybe it's not any of these that are wrong
maybe it's just me

h.f.m.

Once, in a dream, I walked the night sky
Draped in nothing but constellations
I plucked a dying star from the velvet dark
Held it between my teeth as I plummeted
And kissed dirt
All at once buried and carressed
With a smoking crater for a bed
I slept
Feverish with sparks
Flying off me to ignite the world

Now, when I am awake, I walk barefoot across concrete
Dressed in baggy, shapeless clothes
I put a cigarette to my lips
Hold the smoke in my lungs as I stop
Under a street lamp
All at once illuminated and invisible
With a jackhammer for a heart I grin
Into the shadows
Feral with a darkness
Of my own that can rival even the night

Someday, in a story, I will walk on embers
Clothed in flame and majesty
I will taste prophecy on my tongue
Archaic syllables filled with bitter triumph
As I burn
All at once incandescent and lethal
With a last cruel smile for a dark world
I will denounce it
Free with a light
Searing spirit encompassing all of time

h.f.m.

It's 8pm, but why does that matter?
8pm is a world of home movies and cuddles and steaming tea,
where time is put on hold for a while, just to
give us a moment to breathe, lean in, and sigh,
"This is us, this relaxed euphoria. This is us, this retreat from the dawn and the brutal day."

It's 10pm, but what difference does that make?
10 pm is a world of computer screens and soft music and stories,
where time stretches and bends, shaping itself to
the space around you, murmuring just out of your sight,
"This is us, this peaceful calm. This is us, this rest from the dawn and the bustling day."

It's midnight, but does that mean anything, really?
Midnight is a world of shadows and streetlights and fog,
where infinity is a moment, a breath of space to
grasp with cold fingers to bring to one's mouth and whisper,
"This is us, this cool desolation. This is us, this retribution against the dawn and the burning day."

It's 2am, but what does that have to do with anything?
2am is a world of pauses and hesitations and waking dreams,
where time has a physical, transparent form to
inhabit like this liminal skin that hisses and cries and hums,
"This is us, this recurring threshold. This is us, this barrier against the dawn and the broken day."

It's 4am, but who cares?
4am is a world of laughter and grins and reckless abandon,
where we are liberated from our corporeal forms to
transcend the bonds of duty and responsibility, singing,
"This is us, this ethereal dance. This is us, this rebellion against the dawn and the belligerent day."

It's 6am, but is it?
6am is a world of last chances and final requests and goodbyes,
where the time-slipping of the night is fading to
be replaced by the inevitability of the rising sun, sighing,
"This is us, this new ending. This is us, this poem against the dawn and the bothersome day."

h.f.m.

I never wanted to live forever. It will never end, but it feels so final. Never aging, never dying, never changing. I watch those who chose eternity with wide eyes and bated breath, waiting for their inevitable fall. I feel them, and they are divine. But divinity is not for mortal minds. It pulses and writhes under their skin, staining their thin lips and bared teeth gold with ichor. They hunger and shake, and are never sated. And now I know why the pantheon was declared mad. They feast like they are gods and drink like nothing can touch them, but they are like shattered glass and burnt pages of a declaration that used to represent freedom. Untouched by death, they are prisoners of their own constructs.

I am content with being human, singing and crying and hoping and breaking.

I don't want to live forever, immortalized in a world that does not care.

It does not care.

I never wanted it. I didn't want to live forever.

h.f.m.

the night is cold and she sits cross-legged in the middle
of her backyard,
dressed only in a tank top and shorts.
she looks up at where the stars would be
if the sky
weren't filled with city lights and smog

she wonders if the stars are even there anymore.

                                                       ­                     stars are stars are stars
                                                  the ones in the sky aren't the only ones.

yes, but they are the ones that matter.
to her.

                                                           ­                                           of course.
                                                         ­ but still not only, not a singularity.

there is only singularity.
she stares at the empty sky and thinks this.
only singularity, individuals and alone.

                                                         ­                                         not always.

often enough.

she stands
and enters the dark and silent house.
she knows her brother sleeps down the hall,
her sisters sleep down the stairs.
but nothing stirs.
there is only her.

                                                           ­       night thoughts are dangerous.

that is truth.
she thinks and thinks and her
thoughts spiral

down,

down,

down.

                              ­                                                               why not sleep?

sleep is elusive. she has tried,
chasing after rest to the point were exhaustion
is a familiar companion,
pounding along beside her as she runs.
exhaustion and a Heaviness,
curled up behind her eyes.
the Heaviness stirs, sometimes.
she can live with the headache.
it is a gift, in a way, telling her she is not alone in her mind

                                               what of the morning? what of the dawn?

the sun stabs her eyes and burns the words out of her mouth

as the house wakes the noise builds until she only wants
the dimness and numbness of the dusk again.

                                                         ­       this is really about you, isn't it?

you are too clever for me.
she-
i haven't slept well in so long.

                                                          ­        i wish you a good night, then.

wishes mean nothing anymore,
and a good night is a night where my mind isn't
turning over and over
like a riled dog,
whether or not that means sleep.

i have waking dreams now.

                                                           ­                           and is that so bad?

i suppose not.
but i know i should not have them.
night thoughts are dangerous, you said,
and even more so when they turn up like carrion birds
in the day,
pecking and tearing away at what's left of a mind.

                            you poor child. the world has not been kind to you.

no, the world has not been kind.
but i am not disillusioned.
i was never told it would be.

                  that does not mean there aren't soft things, warm things.

things that dry your eyes and fill your emptiness?

                                                     ­                                                          yes.

i have a place inside shaped like one of those,
but it remains empty.
sometimes i wonder if it will ever be filled.
if i will ever feel whole.

                                                       ­                       do not say such things.

fine.
i won't.
but i'll still think them.
even if i try not to, i won't be able to stop it.

                                                            ­                                              cynic.
          ­                               there must be some good feeling inside you.

there is not. i am selfish, selfish, selfish.

...

old things stir in my chest.

                      there is always redemption, there is always absolution.

i hope so. i do not know.
i only know there is not peace.

                                                         ­  there will be, there always will be.

i don't believe you.

                                                           ­ that does not change what is true.

it can. belief is the foundation of most truths spoken.

                                                   spoken by silver and devious tongues.

is there any other kind?

                                                          ­                                  yes, yes, yes.
                                           there is truth, there is hope, there is peace.
                                    always, surely as the sun rises in the morning.

is there?
i am not sure of anything anymore,
not even of the sun.

                                                      it is not hopeless, you have a chance.

are you certain? the night still calls me.

                                                            ­                there is always a chance.

you keep saying that.
always, always.
is there an always?
everything dies, everything ends.
that doesn't sound like /always/ to me.

                                                            ­                              there is, there is.
                                                             ­                                        a promise.

promises mean nothing to me.
too many given have been broken.

                                                        ­outside the night is dark and cold.
                                                          ­                     do you wish to return?

what i wish for does not matter. it never mattes.
it is what it is and will be.

                                                            ­                            it always matters.

there's that word again. always.
as if there are no exceptions.

                                                    ­         the night calls. do you answer?

no. i will not answer to anyone ever again.

-(insomnia is an old friend and the moon and i make three)

h.f.m.