these cupboards never wanted to be cupboards.

they were trees before we came around...

happy ones at that.





why am I okay with that?

he tells him he's missed him,
even though that makes no sense at all.
a smile lights up his features as he looks upon him,
hands gripping in just the right places,
firm squeezes that say: i've missed this, touching you

it only reaches his eyes because he's such a good liar
(but he does miss touching him, all the time.
loves him even when he hates him.
loves him even though he never misses him.
loves him even though he could replace him
without a second thought.)

honest where it matters, of course,
enough to convince them all
he's the epitome of truth
then later, lying through his back teeth, easily,
like chewing his favourite sweets,
no difference in expression:
insincerity masked by a perfect illusion of sincerity

"what reason would i have to lie to you?" he asks
"i don't need to lie to you; i don't care about you"
because everyone knows
the best lies are saved for loved ones
as we manipulate ourselves into believing
"this is for the best"

he tells him he's missed him,
even though that makes no sense at all.
clothes shed, a trail to the bedroom,
a private place where both can be themselves:
here, he's genuinely honest
stripped bare in more ways than one.

he tells him he loves him,
and it makes perfect sense
even though his love is tainted, empty;
better to say he cares,
but that's love for him―
as close as he'll ever be.

he smiles when he hears it,
"i love you too",
and this time it reaches his eyes,
even though his heart
doesn't race
like a lover's would.

it's been a crazy few years and sometimes i just can't ******* believe i've made it this far. after two almost-cut-throat endings and too many nights watching red swill down the plug hole, i'm surprised i'm still standing now. honestly, i used to be in love with the idea of life even when i wanted to end mine but now it's just another motion. well hey, at least i'm still moving. nobody standing still or lying frozen gets the chance to land somewhere new; if i'd have frozen, i wouldn't have met you.
  you that's changed my life in ways that make me simultaneously wish i'd never met you and wish i'd met you sooner. i never used to cry over people but i also never knew what love was supposed to feel like either. maybe i should hate you for tearing down such dedicated defenses or maybe i should love you for making me live, not just exist. maybe i should feel both ways at the same time; maybe i do.
  you asked me what my favourite part of my daily routine is and i told you about how i like to watch the city pass me by through the bus window on my way to college: a filler moment that's always wonderfully long and regretfully not long enough, earphones in, music loud. it's the quiet solitude of the moment that draws me in. i always rush in the mornings, and even free periods at college leave no room for peace. the simplicity of sitting quietly, alone amidst strangers that pay me as little attention as i pay them.
  i kind of want to sit in silence with you, enjoy that quiet solitude with you by my side. i'm always alone but loneliness can defeat even the unbeaten warrior. so let's be alone together. be my shield. protect me from that fatal blow; i don't want my gravestone to read "George Vs. Loneliness: K.O."
  sometimes you make me angrier than i ever thought i could be. i shake and shiver, my teeth attack each other. your love is such a pretty shade of purple when things are good―i want to drown canvases in it. but my anger is a violent red, and when you trigger me the colours switch: i'm seeing red when i look at you, my knuckles are purple-bruised.
  but when it's all over, somehow, you're still the one i want to lie with. and maybe i should get more help. maybe i should tell them how explosive i am, how i worry that one day you'll be too close when i go off and you'll look me in the eyes with my shrapnel in your chest and tell me "we're done". i think five years of therapy has only taught me one thing: i am incapable of being fixed. but it's alright. it's okay to be broken. you're the one that taught me that. and it seems like our broken pieces fit together well enough together to create art. messy, chaotic, but emotive and beautiful in its own right. paint me as a villain, if you wish. i'll still paint you my anti-hero.

i swear you lit up skies
with the way you could talk about the things you love.

as you close your eyes tonight
just think
about what we could have had, if only
you'd have talked about me that way
when i was there to listen;

all your romance was spilled in solitary rooms
almost as dark as my insides felt,
as if you believed
that shouting "i love you" into the void
would ever reach me

but i know you've never had much faith,
that you can't even believe in yourself
let alone anyone
or anything else.
so you were just scared, you were
scared of so many things
and i could never figure out how or

why
why would you be scared of me?
no, i think you were scared of yourself.

if you knew enough about me to
love me
then you would have known that
for all my anger, my violence,
for all my strength

i am more vulnerable than you.

were you scared that admitting your love
would be my undoing?
maybe you didn't know me so well
after all
it was your love that could have saved me
and now?

now i'm back to the way i was before,
lying in dark rooms at four in the afternoon like
the world outside doesn't exist
and
neither do i

i don't know when i started putting everybody else before myself
it was probably back when she called me obnoxious, or when he started ******* behind my back
or when you told me i was too absorbed in my problems, that i needed to "get my **** sorted"

i thought i was, in all honesty

i didn't realise it was such a crime to be open about therapy,
that talking about my problems was selfish of me,
that's what they tell you to do in therapy:
talk, think, open up, discuss
was it wrong for me to practice honesty about what's haunting me in your company?
maybe you just didn't want to know about that side of me
and maybe that said more about you than it did about me
but by the time i'd come to realise that much
it was already too late, and the doors had been shut

i have this one friend - she worries about me
she knows how many stories i listen to, how many walls i'm breaking through
she tells me that my health is important
i know this
but it's like it doesn't matter
not when it's me
i tell everyone that they need to look after themselves but i don't really care about my own well-being
maybe those rules just don't apply to me
maybe i'm a hypocrite, or perhaps self-loathing is a good excuse

i just want to help those who come to me
my self-employment doesn't make me any money
perhaps i'm the one paying the price
but it's okay because i know i've saved lives
that's not to say it doesn't wear down on me
my career is short-lived compared to those who practice this professionally
but i can no longer remember what it was like before i started offering arms and shoulders and pieces of my heart
without taking the time to replace the parts

i get thank you's every once in a while
i tell them, "honestly, it's never a problem"
"never" is a lie
but i wouldn't admit that, no, really, it's fine
i don't mind offering my support and advice
my insomnia means sleep is a rare gift and it comes at indecent times
but if you call me at four AM, even if i was asleep i'll stay on the line
sleep might be a gift but i'd rather preserve the gift of life

sometimes i ask myself how many times i'll have to talk down a loved one from suicide
my heart, with abandon, beats a hopeful rhythm of "never", and my mind whispers "that's a lie"
i recall to mind being thirteen, maybe fourteen years old,
curled into the bed post, night light shining
tears blinding, stinging my eyes
an arm-full of red and a yearning inside
that murmured "one more time and everything will be fine"

i swallow down the acid, even though it burns,
and force my leaden tongue to form assurances and love letters that speak of better days
so many of them have no idea how close i came
they don't need to know about that trigger
just another loaded gun
i'd rather them point it at me than have them aiming for themselves

i just want to help, make them know they're not alone
let my voice ring in their ears, "you will never be on your own"
have my friendship swimming in their veins so they no longer need to bleed
all those demons flooding their arteries will make no match for me
and when it all gets too much, i'll scream into some empty void
let them pour their sadness into me while i'm spewing out my own
i'm strong enough to bleed and carry on being what they need - they can spill their tears all over me, i promise it won't finish me

i'll ignore the salt in my wounds that shakes me to the bone
let them bury themselves inside these broken ribs and find a place to call home.

the scent of you still clings to my sheets
and feelings confuse me
my skype history is a long list of confessions but my biggest secrets are still buried within me
i feel sick
i wish i could purge on self-hatred
i'll dig out these secrets for the sake of this poem, or ramble, or whatever it is
core myself on sharp shards of broken hearts - i have plenty to choose from
more fuel to the fire, my ever-burning hatred for myself
when will it consume me?
i feel sick

confession no.1
i just ate all of the chocolate in the fridge so it wouldn't have to stare me in the face any longer
swallowed it down like its sweetness didn't make me feel bitter
and followed it with a bowl of cereal as a last hoorah for my oncoming diet

confession no.2
i'm **** at this poetry thing
or at least that's how i feel

i can't even be good at something i love
how could anyone expect me to be good at loving?

confession no.3
right now, i feel nothing but resentment and hatred for my mother
her snide comment about my commitment to my therapy made me want to break her neck

confession no.4
i'm incredibly blunt, which is probably why i **** at poetry
i also haven't gotten my anger issues in check
today, on the bus, i imagined shooting this racist woman's head repeatedly and i was angry that i couldn't make her bleed

confession no.5
it's raining outside and i don't feel any calmer
perhaps it's just too mild for me when i feel this stormy
biting back torrential tears like not crying will somehow make me a stronger hurricane
but
i'm still not good enough to blow anybody away

confession no.6
i feel sick in every sense of the word
i kind of want to die