There is a dark I cannot fill,
There is an empty space, small but noticeable still.

A city at midnight, a body to hold,
Of these I dream but my mind is cold.

Have I lost myself once again?
Please, please help me darling,
One, two or three, I am in need of a friend.

He's the first person I tell,
But you are the first one I wanted,
And he is the one I don't know about,
These neon lights flash but I still feel haunted.

There is a light that blinds my eyes,
A truth washed free under these grey skies.

A body close, heat between?
A fantasy snatched from a waking dream.

Maybe I am lost, maybe I am reborn,
I feel my mind is finally free,
But freedom's cost is my own self scorn.

Beaten and blinded, now fill my ribs,
This is strange and bizarre, my body flaunted,
These are the ones that set me on fire,
Body, heart and mind, still to this day, all are haunted.

And so I'll like your selfie,
and I may send you an encouraging message.

Digitalized and marginalized
you exist upon a screen.
To me and my solipsist mind,
all that is real is all that is before me.

All that is after me is fiction,
something I, and millions of other poets may attempt to write,
but realness is lost.

It can be compared to trying to relay a first hand experience to another,
it is impossible to do completely.
I can tell you that the trees swayed nonchalantly and that the water was crisp and welcoming but you will never know what it was like to be on the lake that day.

If Jesus Christ himself were to tell me change my ways...

Put the music on repeat,
put the *** in the pipe,
pull the covers over your chest,
put your tongue inside my mouth,
and wake up,
I will do the same.

The thought of you,
the idea of you,
the digital image of you and everything you've said to me excite different parts of my body.
All these things excite my mind.
Your words excite the blood vessels in my cheeks and your body excites my groin.
I drink a tall glass of water,
I ******* thinking of you,
and I fall asleep hoping to dream of you.

I dream of you putting your tongue in my mouth.
My body excites in my slumber,
and though I only kiss you in my dreams,
I ******* in my shower.

I'm a mountain man dreaming of the desert,
and you're a Midwest girl dreaming of the ocean.

I want to feel your legs around my neck,
your hands held in mine,
and your tongue in my mouth and around my ****.

I want this of her and her and him and her and you but I cannot have it.
So I've masturbated 3 times today and if the son of God told me to change my ways I might need to ******* twice, thrice more.

I run my hand along the traces of him.
I feel the blood rush through my skin.

I grip my shoulder where your head once rested.
I tear at my soul just to feel connected.

I feel the rage I should have felt eleven months ago,
I feel the desire I ought to forgo.

You were the best of all the others,
Their traces remain, but they weren't even lovers.

And neither were we, almost but not quite,
But you were the closest I have been to the shame free light.

I want to be clean of the stain he left,
I want to be clean of the desire I regret.

But as I look at this mark that you left on me,
I am not so sure I want to be free.

She looked at me and said,
"You should **** me
before you love me."
And so I did.

Her hands covered her *******
and she said,
"I want you to guess which breast
my father touched first."
And so I did.

The bones in her hands shifted
as she fixed her hair into a ponytail.
"You're going to promise me that
you're not going to try to fix me.
You're going to promise me, okay?"
And so I did.

Her lips would start bleeding
because when she lied
she chewed her lips.
She said, "I think today
will be the last day I live."
And I asked her for one more.

Dry blood sat on her inner lips
as she kissed me good morning.
Her voice softly cooed,
"I hope that isn't the last time
I kiss you."
And I asked her for one more.

She bled,
"All you write about are girls.
You never write about me.
All you write about are faces
without souls. What about my soul?
Are you going to
******* write about my soul?
Are you going to write another poem?"
And I asked her for one more.

Looking at me,
she ran her fingers
down her hips,
across scars,
and said,
"Too many men look at me
and see what they want to.
They look at me and see
broken picture frames
that they can repair
and put our faces into."

Our hands met
and our fingers grasped
at the pieces of ourselves
that were deeper than faces.
But it was only me
as she whispered,
"Stop,"
licked my cheek
to my ear,
finishing,
"Don't fall in love
with what you
think you see.
Just **** me."

And so I did.
And so I asked her for one more.

When the girl, I loved, died,
I locked myself in her room
while her parents were in Arizona.

I went through her things
and found
**** photos;
A few where she seemed
ashamed
and a few where she
liked her body.
She had a gummy smile
and in others
she looked down at her *******
while having a blank expression.

I found empty
alcohol bottles.
Cheap bottles of wine
and a bottle of red,
stuffed with tissue paper.

Under her dresser
I found an unopened
letter she intended to
give the boyfriend before me,
where she admitted
to being ***** as a teenager
and how she hoped
it wasn't too much
baggage.

I threw out the photos
and
alcohol bottles,
but not the letter.

I don't know why but I kept it.
I occasionally read it,
because it's her,
and I love her.

I told my friend
and he called me a
Halomaker,
because I made sure
she was remembered
as an angel.

A shot and some salt as the ball drops.
I can't believe it all happened.
And I can't believe that I was on the verge of tears.
This heartbeat never stops.

I drank the fire, I breathed in the smoke.
But I didn't breathe in you, and that is what made me choke.

So many people caught up in connecting,
Yet I felt so distant, caught up in recollecting.

My life is not the one that I knew two years ago,
My soul is altogether different, no longer white like snow.

But I was never pure, I have been ****** from the beginning,
I am still thinking about last night,
I am so scared that I still want you,
My world may still be spinning.

To forget is a beautiful thing,
This delicate intoxication is a new way to sing.

But no matter what I couldn't forget that I wasn't close to you,
All the fire couldn't burn away the knowing that "Us" is no longer true.

I just want to be ok with whatever this is,
I just want to be close without having to be his.

I wanted to forget and maybe our feelings could be enough,
But nothing happened last night and I just got drunk.