I have good news!
I held down some food,
made amends with two wise books,
I fell asleep ****.
Today was filled with good news!
Tomorrow
I will fix my glasses,
wash the dishes;
cleaned my carpet.
Today was filled with "middle-of-the-road" news.
Staring contests with my ceiling,
I am ******* dejected from feeling
nightmares as my reality.
Where is the good news that ghosts
do not exist
but in the corners of the mind?
How I dread these long nights
of impersonating one who is healthy
because I showered
standing up
when I want to sit down.
Tonight was filled with questions without
answer.
By morning
it's good news that I pulled myself together.
I ate breakfast and I'm feeling
much better.
Now I can spend all day in the rain.
Today was filled with bright blues.
But wait!
Because I have more good news!
I am learning how to see clearly in the dark!
(I think.)
Oh it's just wonderful news
to know The Moon
and how to keep your wolves
at bay.
Today was just like every other day.

An indistinct smell of wood primer
fills my bedroom as
glitzy images hover
above my head
of you,
wearing over-all's and painting
our picket fence
white.
It turns me on
and I start removing
my clothes,
alone,
though I want you
to be doing this
for me.
Increasing the pace
within minutes,
I touch myself
to the thought
of our first Christmas and
getting used to your shampoo.
Massaging every settled-in scar,
consenting to the electricity
passing through,
that make all of the
unresponsive parts of me,
finally,
effervescent and vigorous.
Envisioning us
making love at that waterfall and
now my fingers are soaked
but it should be yours
and I really want you
to be doing this for me.
Quivering and tearing up,
I have never felt so
satisfied and unruffled
having an ******
to the thought of a future
with you.
But Oh,
to lie down in bed at night,
alone,
without your hand in mine,
it forces me to love myself.
Even though,
I really, really
want you to be doing that for me.

Wisdom teeth and worms are reminders that growing older is terrorizing; Watching our gums deteriorate like bloated roadkill that's been disregarded for some time, I take a magnifying glass to my tongue.
Feeling our flesh begin to groove like sun dried tomatoes as we instinctively prepare ourselves to decompose.
We keep ourselves up passed dawn wondering if whenever our time comes we will be aware of the mucus-green maggots making their way through our eye sockets; invading the only real thing we can deem our own and if they would really bother us all that much.
And if life goes on after life goes on,
will I be in good spirits to have my friends back in my head?
Will I accept being lowered back into the ground the next time around?

Celebrating the heart-rending realization that my habitat is a hole in the ground like I am celebrating my birthday.
Accusing this sink-hole as the real devil's advocate the same way that I blame everyone else for the holes throughout my head and in my walls.
Celebrating the pitiful realization that instead of patching them, I fill them with stuffed animals and cover them with hand-me-down paintings that clash with the colored pages from my little sister.
I start celebrating every black and blue mark.
I made a new rule to never spend my money on white blinds or patterned curtains.
Not on a place so ******* dark.
It's defeating trying to move on and out in a realm where there just isn't enough light.
And I'm ashamed to admit that I've found comfort in it.
I'll make another toast to that and stop celebrating for tonight.

Note to Self-
Feed the possums in the yard
apart from the ghosts
in your mind.
Purge it back up
and flush it.
Descry it as
nothing more
than your *****
and spit.
Do not forget
to forget.
Note to Self-
You matter.
You matter.
You ******* matter to someone.
Quit feeling like ****,
you ******* matter to someone.
Note to Self-
Might as well give it up
or start over.
You've been starving
the possums in the yard
and your ghosts are polluted
with gluttony
as well as every other sin.
Knocking on the window to your mouth,
you continue to relapse
and welcome them back in again.
Note to Self.

Now I
never wonder
why
you call me
weak minded.

Every mutter
in my ear
sounds like you
and every bead
of sweat
reminds me
of our summer days
but I am trying too hard
to move passed you
and it ruins me
like
a demolition.
I look for you
in everyone
that I ****.
I am afraid
of the karma
and what it will bring me
once it finally catches up.
Not like I move fast anyway.