I wish my confessions would fall upon a heart that will listen

Last night you made me feel alive,
For the first time in forever.
But not the kind of alive that she made me feel—
Because she made me feel like the world
in which we live in is enchanted,
When I touched her I believed in magic,
And I finally understood what it meant
To feel infinite at the hands of another soul.
I kissed her dizzy on the bathroom floor and an unnamed heaven was discovered in her lips.

My relationship with Death is impeccable
Those thoughts now feel like home:
Like peace and serenity

Without them I would be skin and bone—
But futile lungs and a heart that doesn’t beat.
Death makes up the very backbone of me

Without Her I would be nothing.
Her shadow arms embrace me in my dreams
Black lips kiss at my aching hips,
She greets me in bed.

Today we were announced married.
Her dark veil awaiting me at the collapsing arch,
Heart in my mouth
I mutter curses and in return She incites,
Invites.

We are one,
The way it always has been.

A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
I wanted to say,
lock yourself in a room,
scream until you have
a poem and no voice.
Open your veins and bleed
until you know that your bones
are pure words and sorrow.
Act as if you slit your own throat
and all you can bleed
are your own regrets
and all of the darkness
you boxed up for inspiration.
Write your mom a letter,
tell her you're leaving
and you won't be back for awhile
Because being a writer is traveling
through all seven layers of Hell
and denying anything is wrong.
Forget loving yourself
when all you have is a pen and paper
fused to your wrist
and Jesus is tapping at your skull
saying turn back now.
Warn the neighbors that if they smell burning
It's just your soul
clawing at the front door trying to get in.
Learn how to be alone.
Learn how to lose everything you have
in order to feel release,
learn how to only feel deceased
from now on.
A friend asked me
how to be a writer.
All I said was
don't