I couldn't fully contemplate 'dark thoughts'
until I had them -
I never belittled them or doubted their existence,
simply their lack of presence made me somewhat
ignorant

I couldn't fully recognise them in myself,
until one night
sat alone, so so alone,
and wondering if it would ever be morning again,
and contemplating whether or not I really cared.

With each sip,
Your bitter lies
Become more evident.

But I'll bite my tounge
And as rust and whiskey mix
I'll take another sip.

The truth burns
On the way down
As I constantly swallow it.

This empty bottle is full
Of things I'll never say to you.

You frown at the way I can drink whiskey without flinching. and every time I tell you. honey. I don't drink alcohol for the taste. If I did. I would have the taste of your smile down my throat every night. I would have every memory of us bottled. And I would drink them whenever you were gone. Which lately is a lot. so lately I drink more. the warmth of the whiskey when it hits my insides reminds of the first couple months with you. When you were sure. When we were good. When I was enough. Now I can't drink enough. Now we don't talk enough. Now is different. The only time I feel you. The real you. Is with my clothes on the floor. You get your fix. I'll get mine. I'll **** the stress out of you. And I'll drink the sadness out of me. The sadness you fill me with with how empty you leave me. I'm addicted to this whiskey. And to the way your hands grip my throat.

In the end we are just
two people hanging off
the edge of a cliff,
the edge where your body
meets mine, burnt now,
charred black, like bread
you forgot you were baking,
in the oven of our hearts,
we sit, hand in hand, daring
to hope that our lives are
like a Phoenix, waiting
to rise from ashes,
these are the ashes that
they place in jars and watch
for decades, dusted
back to their stone
root, in these pastel
coloured pots we are
held, hands clasped,
trapped in the moment
before we fell into
the sea

Red gold stroking strings
of Terra-cotta tocsin,
bounced a check today
and we wonder
will she rot in her cups?
How might we drink
all these donuts...
as a finger stirs the air,
her drum roll eyes...
time became tree limbs
of propaganda.

Why.

Cloud kissed
by hills
hemmed in
by patchwork stone,
a providence in Perugia
her cobalt dreams
strum gypsy wings
where
yellow fringed faces
follow the sun,
an itinerant balloon
tints the grass fucshia
then drifts away
to kiss the sky.

this little girl
has grown, you know.

not in a cute way, though.
she has grown
like a gross building, soon
abandoned, but never to be haunted.

this girl carries no mystery,
even with her eyes
she stares blankly like a puddle.

she still dreams about the sea sometimes.

this little girl
is still a little girl, only now
her body is inflated and
the pure thing is a bit spoiled.

this little girl has never been
fine anyway.