Words, so ever fleeting.
As I lie here, romanticizing memories of all bonds ever formed between myself and another person,
I realize I rarely look anyone directly in the eyes.
Perhaps those moments when I allow myself to do so
make real the emotions that've been evoked.
Words, so ever fleeting,
only moments ago I had the perfect combination of them
to describe the exact same thing I once saw
in every past lover's eyes
that exact same thing
that broke me to pieces.
Now, tonight, in the dim light of 1 am
is a montage of every spark of emotion
that I've ever evoked in a person,
first of love,
second of sorrow.
Now I wonder if I'll ever look another person in the eyes,
or if this realization has concluded said montage for good.
Who am I to seek such refuge in another person
when I can't find such solace in myself?

Sitting at the kitchen table with my father
discussing the importance of the questions
I must ask a dying man.
He says
the answers will die with him, you know.
The answers will die soon, too.
He says,
I am the only one he'd release them to,
the only one capable of fishing out
all those repressed memories
of an only brother
who took his own life decades back.
He strains to put emphasis on a diminishing time frame
choking back tears
for the inevitable loss of his
father in law
the father he chose
whilst I'm flashing back to twenty minutes prior,
discussing his detachment from his own father by blood.
I am sitting at the kitchen table with my father
It's 1 am,
and we are now both choking back tears
discussing the questions I will ask a dying man.

Images of pills peaking out amidst *****
lying perfectly in a porcelain nest
shining like stars in a still night sky
are flashing before my eyelids tonight.
Memories
I can't shake.
Putting all that I've got into change,
forgiveness,
redemption.
So just how many more mornings
of coffee, cigarettes, and the daily newspaper
how many more mornings will it take
for me to stop imagining my face amongst others
in the obituaries?

Swinging aimlessly at the ghost that haunts me
dissipating between fingers of tightly clenched fists

I am now stepping out of the ring to attempt to gain some ground
I've fought countless rounds in a seemingly endless match,
the score's tied
dead even
and somehow it feels almost worse than a loss

Eyes fixated on that trophy
embossed so elegantly
"Happiness"

Shake off glimmering beads of sweat,
wrap up ****** knuckles
once again I'm fixed to fight

Next round's, once again, a bust,
still steady,
we're neck and neck

Hop out the ring,
Discouraged, remain hopeful,
look closer,
the trophy reads
*"Death"

There is a labor dispute protest
outside of the hospital I was born in and
I can't help thinking
Did this ****** up world formulate this ****** up mind?
Or did I  simply come into this world corrupt
with the surroundings to match?

I've been cripplingly depressed these last few months and
it is beginning to take it's toll on my body,
I'm so sick of regulars at my workplace commenting
on how thin I've become.
A friend hugged me,
felt my protruding rib cage and asked if I was okay.
I said, define okay, because the word has lost it's meaning
over the repetition of the phrase in my mind,
i'm okay, i'm okay, i'm okay.

These lows,
so easily justifiable
when I'm just drunk, and sad.
But it's so much harder
when i'm sober and my world's still falling apart.

I am soberish now and
realizing the extent to which I am not over so many things.
I am not over the rejection of the boy I still so badly desire,
and having to see him so happy with his old lover.
I am not over how drained I feel from 50+ hour work weeks.
I am not over the discomfort of the place I call home.
I am not over the past lovers who despise me.

Then there is you,
the former lover I still lust for,
I'm so very much not over you,
yet I know things couldn't possibly ever work out.
I am ******* sick to death of dreaming of you every god ****** night,
waking only to feel utterly demolished inside.
It's been months, why won't you leave my mind?

I'm on the brink of insanity and
I don't even know where to begin
to find the path to recovery.

Polishing off the bottle of wine I intended to ****** you with,
alone.
One glass in, and you ceased your drinking, our romance, and my foul intentions.
I want so badly to be broken by this, be angry, be sad, be hopeless.
Instead I'm thinking about how admirable your honesty is, how I wish more people had that courage.
I'm left here wishing I was lying when I said I was just that detached.

It's when you wake up.
It's the first inhalation of breath that brought you back to consciousness.
It's the first physical sensation that occurs,
The first thought that sparks.

It's how you wake up,
be it tangled in another's limbs,
when you kiss despite morning breath and dry lips.
Or be it promising yourself you'll get back to bed as soon as you're able,
Trying to convince yourself you're still stable, and that you'll make it through another day.

These mornings blur recklessly,
I hardly remember who I am.
I am ready to wake up feeling home again.