I have come
To a standstill
A point in time
When the *****
Running down
My throat suddenly
Tastes a lot
Like love
Like beauty
Like lust

It’s about the tears staining your cheeks
and the pills on your tongue.
It’s about crying in the dead of the night
and the drugs you force in your veins.
It’s about weakness when nobody’s looking
and the blade poised on your wrist.
It’s about breaking down when everyone’s unaware
and your shaky grip on the noose.
It’s about wanting to just disappear
and your finger on the trigger.
It’s about wanting to let go, be entirely free
and your feet planted on the ledge.
It’s about you against your demons
and a tired heart that ceased to beat.

(she was there and everywhere,

the sun peaking through the clouds,
and salty beach waves at noon time.

warm beer and burnt cigarettes,
red wine at breakfast.

the smell of new comic books,
and ink splattered on the table top.

watercolors and ripped paper,
shades and hues—weaving, fading.

all at once and gone again)

You know what’s sad?

It’s when all we have left
are blurred memories
of a happiness too long ago.

The wisps of smoke in the air,
the hazy vision from the short-lived high.

The cheap thrills on the road to nowhere,
drunk off stolen ***** from the cupboard of your house.

The pulse of your heart in beat with the music,
the remedy of your depression coursing through your veins.

The unfeigned laughter and guileless smiles,
this is what it means to be part of the misguided youth.

how many emptied cups of coffee?

how many crumpled papers littering around?

how many broken bottles of beer?

how many cigarette stubs flattened on the ground?

how many stonewashed mornings?

how many sleepless nights, empty and dull?

how many will it take to forget you?

tell me, how many?

i fell

against the floorboard–

cold and hard–

that is you

darling,
you are the story
i will never tell
to my future kids

you are the words that
will bleed like rain on
diary pages

you are the empty
cups of coffee I’ll
fill my cluttered desk

you are the ashes
of yet another
wretched pack of menthols

you are forever
and will always be
my empty, painful
secret; love me, please?

the farthest
from home
I’ll ever be.