Too dead to cry
Yet dull pain still hurts
Too damaged to register
Too easy to accomodate
Sunlight blinds
Fresh air suffocates
Dusty damp corners
Lurking in darkness
Slinking through the shadows
Of what feels normal
Colorless stink of contentedness
Fills the heart
Fills the senses
Feels too full to want.....anything

there are no words
in the dictionary
to explain the pain
i'm in it's
as if it's been
super glued
to my insides,
then tied in
a knot

i cannot convey
i cannot convey
i cannot convey
this pain

but please do not try to fix me;
my brokenness is all
i have left.

The blue rain of obscurity
Blurs the edges of reality
Turns a deluge of insecurity
Into fissures of abnormality
And disappointed purity
that decays the personality

I am you* in unseen places
The you, which you ignore
Forgotten and left behind

I am you behind the play
The nails and glue
That hide behind the picturesque facade

I am you crouched in wait
Perched and ready
To be acknowledged as truth

I am you inside your words
Shared anonymously
Naked, alone, embittered and brilliant

I am you crouched in the darkest corner
Shadowed by pain
Seething in silence

I am you oblivious to the knowledge
That in this twisted loss of self
You are in fact...**me

In the wee hours of nothing
We exist as ourselves
Too tired for delusions
Too asleep to lie
Too awake to dream
Unintentionally
We are our unfiltered selves
Content to just be...
In the wee hours

Some nights,
I just feel so small...
And I don't know
what to do
with myself.

I don't know whether or not
I should laugh
         or have a really good cry.

I feel like a gray area
trapped in such
a beautifully colored world.

We didn’t bloom together the way we should have. We never eyed each other across neat soil; both self-conscious and self-righteous as we sipped the sun and, in quiet bursts, raced to touch the sky.  

We weren't planted by gentle hands in soft plots with room to stretch our limbs and shield our eyes, nor to bud in peace and thrive and find identity in both our own bold blossoms and as a pulsing piece of the whole lavish garden.

We didn't bloom because we erupted.
We running-start-swan-dived into stale dirt and were too close from the very beginning.
We didn’t sprout up straight; we snaked and lurked and left no bit of earth untouched by our vibrant, stencil **** fingers declaring ourselves alive.

By harvest we were tangled beyond repair.
By harvest I didn't know me from you and I liked it.

To be so entwined is lovely but depends on a balance
we could only begin to grasp.
To expand but not uproot requires perfect synchronicity maybe not beyond our years but certainly beyond our maturity. We spread out our emotions like tarot cards on a towel in the grass and reflected in your sunglasses I met the silent pieces of me.
In colorful, grim drawings those quiet, ugly bits floated up veins and settled under ribs.
They stayed silent. Until they began to scream.

And you and I- we didn't have the words;
not our own words that we earned and burned while stumbling across months and plains,
tripping over potholes and finding our feet quicker each time.
We had place-holders words we sang back and forth and splashed around and bathed in.
The words we spoke were profound and cardboard.
We were just reading lines, sharing identical scripts and an ache to be seen
so deep and desperate it was sinful.

We maybe shared the humid cling of regret; which hung heavy in stuck-air auditoriums,
it beaded sweat echoed, rolling down spines and turning blood to sticky wax as we whispered in the corner about the things we could say aloud while our minds never left the things we wouldn't dare.

We were mostly ill-equipped.
We joked about hurricanes
We didn't survive the first storm.

I want you to know you really hurt my feelings.
I want you to know you're the first guy I've given my feelings to hurt.
I want you to know I was terrible towards the end.
And I know that. But you gave up on me

You gave up on me at the exact moment I was giving up on myself.
Even as my tongue stung metallic and veins pulsed so hot and loud
through my eardrum that I felt I would explode- it was clean.
It was all remarkably clean.
and sterile.
There were no explosions.
No shattered plates, ****** knuckles or blown out voices
that scratched and rose in time with the sun.

Just a quick slash of rope-
an anchor cut loose and left to sink;
our secrets were set free to
rust over and collect algae.
We were suddenly off the hook
for any vulnerability we might have spilled
on each other in our fits of laughter
and hours of sleep.
A deep sigh of relief.
A deeper sigh of desolation.

The moment exists in sad yellow lighting that must have been added in restrospect.
I tweaked the floor of my memory too:
at that moment I was not wearing flipflops on linoleum- but sinking, slowly and barefoot, into chilly riverbed mud as it turned to ice.

I opened the door and there you stood.
You knew I had been crying and I didn’t try to hide it
it was too exhausting- running on fumes.

And I did expect something from you,
anything from you, that might dull the singed-dagger plunging
stab to my chest with each breath I gulped and spat .
I wanted anything that might reel me in from the cliffs edge
where my thoughts had carried me on horseback.

But you had nothing.
I watched your eyes swallow my swollen lips and pinched, glassy eyes
like a quick, sharp shot of warm whiskey.
Careful to avoid eye contact you slipped ‘**** this,’
under your breath and started to reach for my hand.

You started to, but then after a second suspended
you let your arm fall back to your body.
Head lowered, jaw clenched and you turned and fled with a new heaviness pushing down on your posture.
It looked painful and adult.
It looked like you finally felt the weight of our season.
And watching you go I shrank in lighter and thicker because I felt it too.

We are not going to get a happy ending-
not with each other and not right now.
Maybe not ever.
And that will have to do.
(Though I will miss your hand in mine.
I hope one day you'll remember being tangled with me and it will make you laugh before you cringe because I didn't like to be alone.)

If I wanted to be alone I would just go home.

Oh, I'm looking for light,
In this godless night,

I'm losing my spark,
And the apathy feels great.

With each uneven beat of my heart,
I close my eyes, and its not nearly as dark...

As the life we surround ourselves with,
Afraid of death and the afterlife.

It is called crazy, crazy, to wish it was over.
They call it depression and submission.

I call it rationalism!
What does this world have to offer you?

You take of it what you will,
But to me it lends only bills!

And not of the meaningless thing we call money,
No ******* up currency, no trust we bind ourselves by.

Nay the cruelty of a loveless life, of emotions drained,
Hopes dashed, family cruelly washed down winter's basin.

What do we look forward to in life?
Oh, I wonder, and wander. I am lost.

But to me I am found. I know who I am.
I am the darkness, at 2 am which causes me to write.
I am the boogeyman, the hidden fright.
The fear which holds you from kissing her,
The quiver you try to hide under, your receding grin,
I am the line by which darkness exudes,
I am evil and the joy infused,
I am the happiness of void, the contentness of lust.
I am the sin and the sinner, the judge and the judged.
And I am without care or worry. I am only waiting to be taken.
Oh. Oh indeed.