Blue eyes on a clear day.
Bluer when the sun hits just right.
I've seen her eyes the bluest when the kid in the red shirt showed up.
Her eyes locked and practically green.
A color on her I've never seen.
Like the seasons changed, so did her eyes.
Eyes so far from the blue skies that once drew me to her.
Jealously struck.
She became a monster.
Green eyed distraught.
I might have lost her.

*Green eyed distraught when it's pouring outside and your sky tells no secrets.
Your petrifying skies that force me on my hands and knees until they bleed screaming
"SKY, WHY DOES HE THINK MY EYES ARE GREEN?"
Seemingly colorblind after he struck me with his lightning,
radiating me with yellows, blues, and pinks
and I'm sorry that I'm still dead and cold after everything.
He wore the wrong color.
Shirts as red as the passion he had only for blood.
As red as the stop signs that I will not let keep me from moving forward.
Deciding to run some place warmer.
Writing you a letter on a purple piece of paper.
Where the sun hits just right.
Signing it, "Sincerely, Your Darling Little Monster."

Driving myself mad with believing that I am so easily pushed out of your way.
Infuriated with the past three years of being hooked in the mouth because I remember the satisfaction in your eyes.
Indignant for allowing to be reeled within your palms that have stayed just as sweaty, as unsympathetic, and as rough as i can remember;
just to be booted back into the water again.
Looking back, I was under the impression that you were merely a lost soul, a ship without a captain, and ultimately a lost cause.
**You still are.

One.*
One toothbrush.
One dollar.
Only one of my shoes.
Two.
Two ravens above my head.
Two black clouds in the sky.
Too much hate behind my eyes.
Three.
Three days on a beach.
Three tries to be with you.
Three times out of reach.
Four.
Four shots in the dark.
Fourth time punching myself in the gut.
124th black and blue mark.

ENCORE ENCORE*
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
and *no
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
right now
wildly fortunate with this glistening euphoric sense of entitlement
singing along with the songs pulsing through my veins

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?

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.

is it wrong of me to hope that you can still smell me on your sheets?

i pray that the parts of me you set on fire and melted would sink into your mattress

stain your carpet

permanently fog your window.

i hope my smoke is trapped in your lungs and i never want you to stop hearing that fire alarm you caused because i feel like a dead soul after the damage that’s been done

the damage that has a name and the name is you.

so burn

i’ll throw your ashes in the lake we swam in and watch you drown.

and never feel sorry.

unraveling unintentionally,

loosely,

the ghosts that live inside of me are pulling at my hair constantly.

unraveling,

trying to get myself together.

unintentionally,

in a frenzy,

peeling the skin from my fingers until they bleed.

with your hands around my throat.

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.

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.

The leaves are changing their colors like I am changing my name.
No longer thriving, bright, and sturdy on my branch; I am now dark and desolate on the ground.
Making one with perished grass and the worms because it feels like "us" outside and I just don't have the energy to grow anymore.
Renaming myself "Autumn" because I am nothing but dried up leaves on your bedroom floor.

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.

JESUS CHRIST WHAT IS LIFE

TO NOT BURN AND PLAY IN ASHES

                          JESUS CHRIST HELP ME BREATHE

BECAUSE HE CRUSHED MY CHEST; RIPPED OPEN OLD SCARS

JESUS

                            HE DOESN’T WANNA MARRY ME

                               JESUS CHRIST I CAN’T SEE

past yesterday.

                                             Jesus Christ.

I thought I began my journey anew; not very healthy but with clean hands.

It’s times like those that used to make me feel reborn. So I thought I was smarter, stronger, more capable of standing on my own two calloused feet but how can I possibly be anew when I’m stuck in my nightmares?

Only responding to the things haunting me.

Foolish.

I have never not believed in anything more than right now.

Now absolutely disgusted by the thought of an epiphany because my hands are still ***** and when the sun hits my sensitive eyes how dare you blame me for looking back. Never reaching my destination because of that.

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.

Unintentionally void and constantly in a vortex of disobeying laws, morals, drinking too much.
Struggling with figuratively wearing my seat belt but getting in the car anyway.
**** IT. I'LL HEAD FOR THE HILLS.
I slam my foot on the gas peddle.
Skull through the windshield.
Crashed into a tree.
In a drunken masquerade, I'm picking all of the pieces up from the wreckage around me.
And forgive me, because I forgot how beautiful that hour long drive was.
Forgive me because those car accidents weren't and left pieces of me on the highway.
Because I'm working towards the day where I will never let green lights scare the **** out of me again.
Trying to find the rest of my pieces solemnly and natural.
Trying to get my license by next week.

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.

Unfailingly unsure and uneasy at the thought of a God but I begged the sky for direction last night.
Bawling on the shoulder of the Big Dipper like it's my long lost mother,
biding my time for an answer and scrutinizing for a sign,
I still can hear nothing in return.
I'm prying open it's mouth to hear it say that I am not bad and I am not slipping away
but she is silent and
I can feel that I am.
Looking down towards the ground I cannot help but think that
this is the fate that my stars have left me;
between home and where I live.
SO I SURRENDER.
I'm giving up the bottle before the bottle gives up on me.
Wanting something more than the intoxicated chemical romances and I've grown sick and tired of chewing people up and spitting them back out.
Wanting something more for my own sake because I don't want to be a good for nothing any further and I've grown sick and tired of killing myself just like you've killed me in your brain.
Unfailingly unsure and uneasy at the thought of "Me" but I begged the sky for direction last night.

To hell with those captivating,
winsome,
yellow eyes.
While you're shadowing
inadequate rabbits
claiming vegan-ism,
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,
lipstick dripping,
that will never be me.
Because I am the alpha.
I finally found closure
and brilliance
at the end of your
dark aura
and unscrupulous persona.
So to hell with your sad songs to the moon,
Wolf,
that I hear so frequently.
Always blaming it on
being the only one
around
when your instincts
took control
and your sanity
took a vacation.
Crying to the moon
but never
the sun.
**STOP ******* SINGING!

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?
Tell me,
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,
so unvarnished,
to keep a clean bedroom?

Now I
never wonder
why
you call me
weak minded.

Whilst being in the midst of what is supposedly considered a peaceful setting, I still feel deranged.
I'm always alone at bonfires in the night with a crowd of people and my demons dance in the shadows of their faces; teasing me as they trace every cheek bone and seesawing at a distance within the woods.
Wishing for better days that aren't tainted with impervious black smoke and ash but I no longer trust the wind.
I no longer trust the trees, this rusted out fire-pit, or those cunning koi fish in that pond regardless of all of the years in lessons they've taught me.
Because I remain burning up
waking up
breaking out
in cold sweats and I have never thought of a tree as a waste of space before.

Unwanted thoughts trespass and climb the attempted latched up gates of my mind every night and my house is too small for more dogs.
I'll tattoo on my forehead that my heart is dead and my soul is lost in your thick blanket fog.

I will remodel my studio apartment from a ****-hole into a tower so that you drain all of your power, finally never able to reach me again at all.

But too bad that I'm a coward and the hammer smashed my fingers and I knew that I would give up all along.

I know that I'll leave myself with the same wooden mess,
the same heavy chest,
and all the more bitter and sour.

I know there has to be a reason why I never feel naked
when I step into the shower
and I shouldn't be blaming you anymore.

Anymore,

you’re just another

cold shower.

Naked tree

in the

winter.

your eyes were like summer
yet i could see my breath in your presence.

you put me in a trance and it was wrong of me to finally trust another person

especially you because you are a demon that i can’t get rid of.

sadly you weren’t phased by the rock salt, every ounce of my pathetic hope, or the sage.
sadly i’m still wondering why i’ve been fighting you off in my sleep all over again.

after everything, i figured you had no heart. you had no ******* remorse or sympathy for any one. i figured you had no idea on how to love but you did know how to make yourself feel alive by chewing up other people.

you showed me hate instead of love and a hurricane instead of vacation.

so i made a bet to myself.

i made a bet to myself before i walked on railroad tracks carrying along a scalpel and a beer in my shaky palms that there is

no way i spent all of this time and energy, blood, sweat, and tears on someone with no feelings.
someone like him just had to be alive, right?

i cracked open your chest to find a heart that wasn't even there, but a sad sorry ******* excuse for one.
that you made out of every other person you robbed, protected by barbed wire. parts of them were lined up in chairs holding all of those crumbled up envelopes you forced them to fall in love with and it made me feel *****.

i held my breath as i used my fingers as a shovel to dig through your, for the first time, opened chest to find that giant piece of my soul you tore out of me years before.

after pushing past all of those other souls, i found that part of mine.

she was half broken and covered in snot. she screamed for me in her raspy voice to please wash her up and take her back home with me but she wouldn’t come clean and the more i washed her the more i didn’t want to know that “her” any longer.


i put her back in that empty chair, turned around and walked away without sewing you back together.


because ghosts are ghosts and that’s not life.


now i owe myself twenty bucks.

If I fall over when the wind blows or if I shatter when pelted by rocks then you suction yourself to women like a parasite.
You're the one that runs with your tail between your legs from one clap of thunder.
You lust after our blood, from one ***** to another, and I just feel bad for her now.
So I suppose you're right.
You are the statue and I am the leaves.
You're at a stand still and I go where the wind takes me.