Crippling chaos
ceaseless and wearying

Cliffs cave in
collapse into the hungry sea

Create confounding cages
cold in a furnace
conflagrating in a blizzard
contort into a cavern
capable, perhaps, of crumbling
chiseled into its fated form
cascade along the corners

cry desperation
curse the distance and
choose to—

cut and
close

See my smile
snap like a twig
hear the sound
of cackling splinters
mirth as if in mockery
of the way
my laughter breaks
every time I remember
litanies repeated
beneath closed wrists
closed eyes
closed
Knock on the frown
of my mask
I wish you would
just
knock
See my fingertips
trace the lightning
that separates
my irises
Dry as the cracked
ground of my lips
Let me bleed
on my own
water the pit
of my stomach
See me bleed
See
me
Let me
just bleed
on
you.

“A man who lies to others is a liar, but a man who lies to himself is a fool.”

So call me a fool. Call me vulnerable, fragile, tainted, shattered, jaded, cynical. I would rather lie to myself than let you in, because I am not known for my bravery, and I never will be. Call me a coward. Call me proud, selfish, bitter, angry, sad, damaged. I would rather take the easy way out, because there is no way I will tear down walls I’ve built for years just for you. I am not that strong. Call me weak. Call me blind, deaf, senseless, foolish, ignorant, insane. I would rather be alone, because it is safe and secure and familiar, and because the sadness of it has become an integral part of me—I wouldn't know how to live without it. Call me pathetic. Call me defeated, lonely, haughty, rejected, triumphant, defeated, defeated, defeated.

I want to forget the sound of your voice. I want to forget your hands, your fingertips. I want to forget your face, your smile, your laughter.

I want to forget the color of your eyes.

Sloth
The idyll which is deadly
to the transient mind
Aloft in the empty desire
to take nary a single step
to refuse oneself
to do nothing

Gluttony
The uncontrollable want which is deadly
to the fickle body
Drowning in irrational need
to consume
to devour oneself
until there is nothing left

Greed
The desperate craving which is deadly
to the unsatisfied palm
Reveling in destructive yearning
for things not needed
for things impossible to have
until rich with nothing

Lust
The mindless drive which is deadly
to the sinful being
Swamped in instinctive sensuality
of the pleasuring flesh
of the touching skin
until thoughts are nothing

Envy
The reined malice which is deadly
to the defenseless heart
Unseeing in the loathing for others' triumph
as the resentment festers
as the bitterness thrives
until the bloodstream is nothing but poison

Wrath
The burning rage which is deadly
to the peaceful soul
Cowering behind the crimson mask
of latent fear
of suppressed weakness
until nothing but hatred exists

Pride
The lofty eye which is deadly
to the humble person
Flying above the breathing clouds
above the fabric of reality
above heaven's brilliance
until the sky falls

until the earth is nothing.

He—
    Quiet as sorrow
    Screaming the distance between us
    Taut as a bowstring

He—
    Thunderbolt unravels me.

Black
Shriveled
Flaking at the edges
Crumbling into a shipwreck
crashed far too many times
      into someone else's shore
Walls are peeling off the collapsing interior
      the paint is scratched with claws
Not enough pillars, not enough strength
      Samson's arms are long broken
Blood forms blades
Ribs remain cages, prisons
Curling into a fist
Knocking on someone else's heart

It's a door
     that will never open.

You laugh, and I think:
*this is what I left.

How horribly sad
that all you left are your ghosts -
and they haunt me still.

It turned me into this. It made scales out of my skin, yet for some reason it has also ripped into my flesh. Is it trying to protect me or **** me? It stole the light from my fingertips and the curves from around my tongue. It gave me the power of flight. It strengthened my legs and hardened my feet.

Now I am both safe and dead. I am empty of luminescence and I have razors between my teeth. I fly often these days, most of the time above the clouds.

Now I have strong knees and firmly placed toes. I am good at walking away now.

I can't count the number of times I've blamed it for the things I have left. Over and over, it forces me to make choices I have always refused to make - for good reason.

I can't count the number of times I have walked away because it forced me to, but I remember every single instance when I walked away when I didn't have to.

And until now, I am not sure which was my biggest mistake.

Who am I?

My name is want
an eternal curse
embedded into
sunken skin and
chipped fingernails
and flaking paint
on the walls
living at the bottom
of empty bottles
festering in open wounds
like dust and grit
like an infection.

Who am I?

My name is need.
a silent howl
resonating in oblivion
an echoing quiet
trapped in cages
crafted from skeletons and skulls
warnings and red signs
denial, denial
and stark, raging fear
breaking bridges
of teeth and throats.

My blood is ink
And my heart is an empty inkwell

Ethereal
in form and name
with fog as flesh
and breaths
the color of haunted
smiles and cries
clothed in wails
and hollow screams
that fill this hazy emptiness
empty, empty
I am empty
Where do I find
a heart
tell me, tell me
Tell me I am real
not just a fragile
figment of imagination
to be captured
imprisoned in my own thoughts
I am already captured
imprisoned, emptied
carved into a marble shell
pretty, pretty masks
hiding nonexistent expressions
concealing glass eyes
broken, broken
I am not yet broken
there is nothing left of me
My name is a forgotten relic
But I hope you'll look for my grave.

I want to believe that I am not nothing. That I am a conflagration struggling against the crushing darkness. That I am a flare of light, ephemeral and inconsequential but brilliant and visible, nonetheless. I want to believe that I am not the monster I have always feared. That I have weaving fingers and unwavering hands that hold and cradle and carry. That my shoulders have known tears and my tears have known shoulders. I want to believe that I am not a desecrated ruin that can only weather the storm by staying dead and broken. That my glass innards are fractured and unwhole but form colored spider webs from shades of my blood. That my parched skin is merely paper begging for the taste of ink. That there is a story waiting to be written. That there is someone willing to write it. I want to believe that I am a survivor. That I can break and topple and crumble into shambles and rise five minutes later and keep walking without looking back. That I am not hollow inside. That I am not a completely horrible creature. That I float on hurricanes.

I want to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to believe that I am capable of these things.

I want someone to know that I want to believe in these things.

I want to tell someone a story. A story about fire and monsters and hands and hugs and buildings and glass and writers and towers and hurricanes. A story about believing.

But there is one thing I want more than anything—

I want to be a story.