to these songs in my head
a symphony of harmonicas
dissipating throughout each hemisphere of my brain
i am now dancing around my success
and no longer my addictions or my demons
the melody that crescendos from my frontal lobe sticks with me and resonates
with every note that i hum
i am happy now
my cerebrum is not malfunctioning
even living with mistakes is more simple
i am having less trouble admitting that i was never right back then
but today i am right here
wildly fortunate with this glistening euphoric sense of entitlement
singing along with the songs pulsing through my veins
it's been awhile, folks.
I want to be swallowed up
By shooting star's blazing tails
And the universe's
Infinitely expanding space
Black holes and black planets
White dwarfs that supernova
I want to be caught in the debris
Of the chemical dust and gas
Floating on the light
Of a thousand dying suns
We become giants
And we become supergiants
I will exist in the empty space
As air and grit and starlight
I will become dark matter
I will let the dark matter
Jesus Christ I was made with a monster inside of me.
It’s an enemy.
An uninvited guest, closer than my shadow; a “scientist gone mad” concoction settling and putting roots into every inch of me.
It’s a home wrecking unkempt roommate who defaces your property, ***** your man, then shows up to fist fight at four in the morning.
It’s something that's created a bed in my chest and a toilet in my brain.
Lounged back in its moth-eaten recliner, flipping eagerly through all of my channels while sipping its drink; it is something that is always with me.
It shares what I touch and what I eat; speaking literally, it goes fifty-fifty on every diminutive measly thing.
Cheek by jowl in front of the mirror and dressed in the same outfit, my villainous lowdown twin sister, right there next to me.
It has earmarks of a mother who I am to take orders from or else I can't laugh with my friends or play Nintendo for six weeks, where she tells me to change my clothes three times before breakfast, where I am unable to act appropriately.
Awaken daily by that specific detrimental type of early morning sickness, where the cold-hearted ***** is always with me.
Able to hold a candle to a man that makes you cry and gazes at your best friends, where he makes you feel dejected and ever short.
Where he purloins your spirit and hawks on the fire in your belly; forcing you to allow him to make you feel that way and it's that specific muddy stain on a white T-shirt.
Wash after wash, he is always ******* with me.
It’s the fog that glazes over the roads and hides the trees at four o’clock in the morning during your drive through Pennsylvania.
Whenever the birds sleep until the woods are illuminated by sunlight.
It’s the reason for the high beams that are always on and always bright.
And they are always with me.
No, never any clutter.
Disarray somehow never an option and everything in it's place.
Each object assigned to a specific spot on your shelves,
furniture rarely catty-cornered and
blinds always straight.
I watched you dust twice a week with dejection and revulsion because
clean bedrooms just have no remembrance.
If I can't smell what you've had for dinner
two nights ago
ascending up from underneath your bed
then where do you truly live?
I want to see nicotine stains and cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.
I want to wonder about how long they had settled to get to that gradation of yellow.
How long have they been hanging on by just one string?
how do you scour away at that intricate wondrous web;
another creatures art,
all for your woebegone off-white walls?
Abandoning the remains from your dust pan into the garbage without feeling resentful.
A clean bedroom has no trace of life.
How do you sleep at night
aware that there are no *** spots on your freshly washed sheets,
not being able to think
"This is where she showed me she loved me."
I want hidden messages behind picture frames throughout the hallway.
Give me mud on the carpet and fingernails in the bed.
A clean bedroom...
How could you be so muted,
to keep a clean bedroom?
I am so sorry
that I've neglected my friends
the fire in my soul
To hell with those captivating,
While you're shadowing
I refuse to be the one
to believe that you filed
down your teeth.
That you no longer manipulate
and sink your claws
into the weak and naive.
Displaying their charming severed heads
on your mantel as trophies,
that will never be me.
Because I am the alpha.
I finally found closure
at the end of your
and unscrupulous persona.
So to hell with your sad songs to the moon,
that I hear so frequently.
Always blaming it on
being the only one
when your instincts
and your sanity
took a vacation.
Crying to the moon
**STOP ******* SINGING!
I don't need you to tell me I have value