Writing about you is harder than i thought
Because i'm so conflicted about you still

i wish i could leave it at that but
then you wouldn't understand
you would think you did
but- and i say this as gently as i can-
you would be wrong

i'm not even sure i understand

there are times
where
the thought of you is
unbearable

and there are times
where
the thought of you is
unbearable


it fluctuates
sometimes collides

it's very unpredictable
and requires further study

I hung plum curtains in a circle
To hide from the world.
Sometimes I hear passerbys
Tapping on the glass
Wondering if there’s anybody in there;
A cockroach trapped in a glass jar.
I pretend there’s not.
I sit perfectly still in the middle
And let them tap away,
Knowing that I’ll never tempt to
Peak behind the curtains,
Afraid that what’s tapping
Isn’t human at all,
But my paranoia
With malicious intent.

she had beautiful eyes
the kind you could get lost in
and i guess
i did.

Recycled noise
eyes litter the floor
Consciousness murmurs day by day
We don't know where home is and
we're okay with that
It'll be okay
Our feet are cold
Our body awake
Our mind rested and ready to lapse into memory waves
Signs of anchored wisdom and prophecy
A black screen of mindfulness on my hands
blue shells clatter to the floor
The heat of the weapon warms my feet
We aren't tired, are we?
Our heads are too heavy
We risk stretching our legs
And the blood rushes back in
We're tempted to bathe
We're tempted to relay our dreams
It is hard to deny these
Yet it isn't
Our writing becomes large when we have this joy
we have no struggle
no shortage of peace

For some reason people don't understand humanity
they find it disgusting
greedy
corrupted
impure
but how dare they praise faults
instead of glorifying the good
the kindness
the warmth
the love
so much love surrounds humanity
and i feel it everyday

When you kiss me
Do you taste
The words left dead on my lips
A mouthful of ghosts?

When you breathe me in
Do you fill your lungs
Then choke me down
Like a shot of whiskey?

When you touch me
Do you trace your fingers
Along the signature
Depression left on my arms?

When you hold me
Do you feel all the pieces
That won’t ever be put back together
Can you tell
That’s the way I was made?

I’m not broken
Because I was never whole
In the first place.

The curtain falls, a veil between
Thinly drawn emotions, more than they seem.

Her hair falls to shade a radiant face,
I cannot scream in a hollow place.

He loves me true, he loves me not.
The stage lights up, I want his passion hot.

Or cold?
She fears this is getting old.

In likeness of a failing fight,
Fly then run, walking through a torn night.

"It's normal" I say to the soul in my eyes,
But I cry that night, but everyone cries.

I don't think he does, and so do you,
On top of all this I must watch my own heart too?

It's normal I tell her, but this lie I have loved isn't
I bleed from my heart.
I plead for my art.
Is it normal to crash down, feeling so distant?

This play put on by us in youth,
This show of passions, far from absolute truth.

The vapor pours from their thin lips,
The smoke clears, black gold cascading from her hips.

Is it normal to crawl against the wall?
To bite at the night and scream and call?

Call for his name to pierce the dark,
To open the curtain, to erase the mark.

Her windows, thrown wide, show the same play as me,
And shut they hold all of my fragility.

That night I fought my own skirmish hard,
That night fate dealt you a burning card.

Is it normal? This lavish dance?
These worrying minds in the vast expanse.
It may not be normal. Or maybe, it is...
Maybe our minds are just torn like his.

He stood with his hands in his pockets,
J-Crew haircut perfectly resting atop his head.
He stood with his hands in his pockets making sure it was still there.

He could feel it, which reassured him but until he was rid of it he could not be entirely sure.
Sure of himself, sure of his love,
sure that life was good and that he would make it.

He loved this thing but it was not his love.

And so he stood, waiting for the boy.

The boy came.
He came like lightning with no thunder; tremendous at first, but increasingly lackluster the closer he came.

He motioned to the boy and the boy increased his pace.

From one pocket to another the thing was exchanged.

He finally breathed once the boy was gone.
For the first time in three years he breathed.

He got in his car.
On the highway he felt an odd sort of peace.
An endless stream of cars passed him, yet none followed and none were in front of him, they were all entering, he was leaving,
for good.