i love you
          i'm sorry
                    i don't know what i did

We don't talk much anymore;
It's like a rift grew between us
Not overly large, but significant
Enough to make me feel cautious
About trying to bridge the gap.

Last time, you were angry with me
For trying to speak to you after so long
And I guess you made me nervous;
Every time I try to lay a brick,
I fall off the foundations of a bridge
Too weak to support all this anxiety

But how was I supposed to talk to you again
Without starting up a conversation?

That's why we're here, now―or maybe
It's all in my head. Who knows?
I don't know; I just feel it, this abyss
You're on the other side and I'm torn
Between looking to you and looking down

So maybe we're still best friends
Or maybe you think I'm a total ****
And honestly, I really was just busy
And sometimes just too depressed
And sometimes just too exhausted
But it's not like you made an effort either

I know we're still friends;
Maybe I'm projecting, maybe I'm paranoid
But I feel like you're angry with me
Or disappointed―not sure which'd be worse.

I still love you even if now you only like me.
Tell me I'm wrong; tell me I'm an idiot
Tell me we're as tight as we were two months ago
Or is it three now? You know I'm **** with time

Tell me I'm wrong.
It'll be the first time in my life where admitting it would be beautiful.

i'm not sure that i want to live anymore
i'm not sure that i'd call it suicidal
i'm not sure that i wouldn't call it suicidal
i'm not sure if it's fair to say i'm a risk to myself
i'm not sure i'd ever go through with it
i'm not sure it's fair to ignore it
i'm not sure that i want it acknowledged
i'm not sure about showing weakness
i'm not sure about showing vulnerability
i'm not sure i want to let anybody close
i'm not sure i don't want to let anybody close
i'm not sure i can handle somebody knowing my soft side
i'm not sure i can handle somebody accepting me
i'm not sure about anything
i'm not even sure what this is

it's not a poem, really
it's not a statement
i'm not sure it's anything at all

it just is

my mother calls it being rude,
tends to yell at me for it
as if deluding herself into believing
that i won't yell back. i'm not a *****;
i won't take it
lying down.
i might be her son, but
being the teenager doesn't make me wrong,
and her being the adult doesn't make her right.
she doesn't get that,
doesn't see my side.

my friends call it sassy,
and encourage it,
and laugh, and it's nice
to just snark with them, back and forth
like a steady stream of sarcasm,
cutting quips from sharp tongues,
scathing remarks. it's all
playful, in the end,
like children who squabble over toys
then hug after mere minutes of cool down.

my mother used to call me "mouthpiece"
as a kid. it's funny how
she takes me so seriously when i'm only joking,
then laughs and degrades me
whenever i take something personally,
as if the verbal abuse slipping from her lips
is nothing more than teasing.
she's a hypocrite.
she calls me rude, an "ungrateful little ****",
wishes hell upon me, slaps me round the head
and gets in my face like a threat,
teeth bared like blades

but mother, i'm not scared of bleeding―
got that beaten out of me
so very long ago.
if you could just stop now, shut up,
quit being a mouthpiece, as you call it,
then this will all blow over,
and we can go back to pretending
that each of us doesn't exist to the other
for a couple nights.
we're sort of volatile, you and i
sometimes your words hurt more
than daddy's gripping hands or neglect ever could.

sometimes you make alcoholism tempting,
and wouldn't that be a fine symphony,
"like father, like son"
ringing hollowly in the empty space
between my ribs and my lungs
forgetting how to breathe
without breathing too much.
somebody once called my panic attacks
"attention seeking", but they were so wrong.
i've never wanted to be more invisible
than when i've found myself vulnerable
over a ******* memory, a ******* ghost of all the--

do you know how strange it is
to feel your heart hammering against your bones
with the too-fast flow of blood making your head spin,
when you've been so certain
that you've never had a heart at all?

this heart never got broken, depressingly enough.
it's kind of tragic to want something to hurt bad enough
to make you feel normal, human
but i've kind of been conditioned for disappointment
and solitude, and anger.
i've been so fine-tuned to drum beats
and cold voices,
it's no wonder i'm so closed off and detached.
but hey, at least it saved me some trauma,
no betrayals here, no questions,
no "i thought you loved me". hell,
i'm not even bitter that i never got a chance at a proper family

does that make me lucky?

ah, such a mouthpiece,
always spitting venom, dark humour at my own expense,
warding off any meaningful company
laughing about those times i tried to **** myself
like they're nothing

did you expect any less? how could you expect more?
your worthless son
is as cold and dead on the inside as his daddy.

that bitter symphony,
"like father, like son".

after some time
and some distance
it's safe to say that
i love you
like a best friend,
and i can't describe
the relief that brings me.

my heartbeat
doesn't feel so painful,
not anymore,
and i breathe
so much easier
now that i know
i'll never have to write
another heartbroken word about you
ever again.

god, i love you still,
i really, really do;
but it's so much easier now,
not struggling to swim
through raging waves
under the weight of
expectations and assumptions,
hesitation and guilt

it's so much easier
to be in love with you
with almost none of the romance
that went with it before,
and i really hope that
you're okay with that,
because you promised me:

"you're enough", you said.
and it took every ounce of courage
dredged up
from the marrow of these aching bones
to trust you,
to believe you,
to dare to allow that someone―
that you―
could love me
unconditionally.

dusk settles over the hilltops
and you find me
back resting against a tree trunk
wondering
"whose spine is sturdier?"
raising a cancer stick to my lips,
refusing to inhale after ******* in the smoke,
and i think
"coward"
and i know that i will never
be rooted;
i will never
stay loyal to one patch of earth
unlike this oak that supports me

holding the smog
between my lips
is a little more dangerous
than Augustus' metaphor
but it's sure as hell
less dangerous
than letting it clog my lungs―unless
storing it for a moment before exhaling
is likely to give me mouth cancer
instead of lung cancer

well, i've never been one for commitment
i think i'd rather spit
and pretend
that the tumour
is being expelled
than know there's something
deep inside
that grows every time i so much as breathe

oh, love,
what an illness you are
both of you:
the feeling, and the holder of that pet-name
no chemotherapy
is going to save me,
not now

i think i'll hand myself over
to ignorance
and wait for the problem
to go away

my immune system has always been impressive

cool. lightly scented. i sit alone in the reception of a spa. tranquil tones soothe the atmosphere. i lean against the wall, and wait. a fear of physical contact roots me to the spot; they will not touch me. impatiently. silently. i wait.

grey, cloud-tinted sunlight blankets the day. it was blistering heat earlier. i think of the way sweat pooled in the hollow of my chest as your tongue dipped over my collarbone. my back in damp grass. hoodies abandoned. who cares about a little mud when the things we do to each other go beyond *****? somebody might see was a quiet worry drowned out by rough breaths and guilty little whimpers.

now, i am thousands of miles away from you. six hours of time difference. phone vibrations. my unshakable conviction that you might leave me be if i ignore you, even as i miss your touch. sitting alone in a spa reception, too uncomfortable with the idea of hands on my skin. but i miss the pads of your fingertips digging into my sides. palms clamping my wrists either side of my head. pinned in place by ocean eyes that drown me.

we will leave for the secret garden soon. coffee will be placed between my palms. maybe hot. i'm feeling a chill in my bones that wants to be chased away. my mind's eyes conjures an image. memory. you sit across from me on four hours of sleep. your body vibrates on caffiene overload. you are like me sometimes. but my poison is bitter, coffee beans; your poison is an attack of fizzing sugar on your cardiovascular system.

maybe. maybe that's the answer. why you're sweet. why you escape confined spaces (read: relationships. you are like me sometimes.) like bubbles leaping from a can. maybe it's why i'm dark. with an aftertaste almost everybody is determined to chase away.

something tangy hangs on the air despite the spa's best attempts to provide aroma therapy. my mind pines for your natural scent. light washing powder. a little musky, like faint sweat. not the sweetest, but real and warm. i can find it. i reach for it, fingers finding warm skin. we press chest to chest and this hardly feels real. motorbikes and scooters rumble by. your voice is a ghost in my ear. too quiet to be present.

eyes open. receptionists wander. you are far away. my eyes glaze over anyway. sleepless nights and busy days. i slump into scenery: green grass, wrangled trees, a brick wall decorated with poison berries and stinging nettles, a blue sky with white clouds. your body above me.

you were the first of them all
to make me smile and laugh so much

you were like a sister to me,
and beautiful in so many ways

your voice was one i could listen to for hours
and your art awed me

i can't listen to Halsey
without thinking of you singing her songs—not a perfect voice,

but still brilliant, with something earthy to your tones
that had me feeling grounded.

well, on some level you turned out to be
just as bitter and spiteful as me

who knew? i didn't see our end coming
until you two ended and i was stuck in the middle

your anger made me angry;
your salt turned me into an ocean of disdain

i hadn't been quite as hateful over anybody
as i had been over you, for a very long time,

and it's been months, but now
i can finally think of you without any resentment

you're complicated, and perhaps a little broken,
but so am i

you're not as mature as you once seemed,
but, at times, neither am i

you're still talented, and you deserve good in your life
more than i do

so even though you'll never read this:
this is me, doing something i rarely ever do

this is me, wishing you well
and making peace with something shattered

instead of letting myself bleed over it.

they say a child can grow up conditioning themselves
to forget
all the trauma they've experienced;
they say they quite literally push it
to the back of their minds, as a way of coping,
a way to deal with the pain―without actually dealing with it.

it'll all come crashing back, eventually
everyone knows that a dam is a temporary structure,
that eventually the chemicals in the water
will erode the wood and
break it apart

it all comes rushing in
and escapes through blood-shot eyes,
drooling, sobbing coughs and panic-slick wheezes.

i never fully managed to forget my father
though i'm sure there are things i don't remember―
after all, that's an awful lot of hatred
and anger
for only several incidents, and a lifetime of an alcoholic's neglect...
isn't it?

but you―you i managed to block out completely
to the point where i knew the phrase "emotional abuse"
but couldn't quite be sure why i applied it to you;
it was just something i knew
instinctively

how foolish it was for me to break the dam myself,
out of some morbid, masochistic curiosity:
"what did she do? what did she do to me? why?"
and then i remembered

all the sleepless nights spent reading to you,
lulling your insomniac mind (though not as bad as mind)
and soothing the supposed nightmares you had:
nightmares that you, conveniently, only suffered
when i was asleep―and i was hardly ever sleeping

all the memories you blurred between me
and your last boyfriend; all the ways
you made me feel like ****, comparing me
to a **** bag that cheated on you
and then lured you in again with falsities and
repeated apologies. you fell for it every time,
and i had to wonder: why am i not good enough
compared to that?

the way you asked me to watch you in the bath,
whilst you drew on your skin and told me:
"this is what i do to avoid cutting myself"
and i thought:
"i'm still cutting"
but i sacrificed my own stability to ensure your safety

******* martyr, i was
how disgusting to allow myself to be manipulated by you,
even after the hours you left me guessing out of spite
whether or not you'd burned your skin with that lighter
just because i didn't want to spoil your mood with my own

the holiday i spent in my dream city was spoiled
and stained and joyless, as you ****** the soul out of me
by burning images into my mind:
you and him, sharing a bath, looking after his family's kids.
why the **** would you do that to me?
more importantly, why the ****
did i let you? and still love you?

so many more incidents, so many more
broken promises and sick lies;
the way you hid me from your family
and only trusted me not to cheat because i'm demisexual;
you made sure i'd never emotionally connect with anybody else
and find attraction in them,
lest i move on from you and find another

one that wouldn't abuse me
like you did

i thought of you as my perfect half
who knows?
perhaps you still are

but there have been angry storms
and bitter seas, and tears
as salty as the ocean, and

twice as ferocious, impassioned,
they crash against the sand
amidst desperate, roaring winds:

a cold and battering rush
of all those unspoken words finally
ripping their way out as a hurricane,

and the dark clouds block out the sun,
ruining happy days to aid us as we forget
what that bright, bright warmth felt like between us.

we run to opposite ends of the beach,
duck into shelter, home alone
and aching.

i know your tourists leave bad reviews
with every fleeting visit;
i know you pin me to the wall, a poster, reading:

"would not recommend;
the main course gave me
heartburn that lasted months"

but they forgot, as did you,
of all my weather-warnings,
and the times i told you:

"it's an acquired taste;
you can say no.
i really wish you'd say no."

maybe you still are my
perfect other half
but for this period i'm torn in two.

your whirlpools have cracked my ships,
****** my loving sailors
into sure and certain suffering;

summer is over.
the leaves will fall far more gracefully than us,
and we'll see,

if by winter
we can cocoon ourselves in blankets
and grow into something beautiful as we heal.

God help me, I've tried
to get you off my mind but it's
i m p o s s i b l e,
especially when the memory of you,
your body pressing me firmly
into the grass, uncaring of the lingering rain-damp dirt,
is still burned into my brain
every time you double text for my attention.

The graze of your tongue,
against my own,
a motion so languid, a feeling so warm,
a taste so sweet―

you're like molasses against my lips
sliding, impossible to ignore, down my throat
and dragging with you the words
I can't seem to spit out

and I'm grateful for the soothing relief,
the way your syrup coats where I'm raw:
a glaze that leaves sweetness in its wake
where usually there's bitterness,
both from the coffee that wars with an insomniac's exhaustion
and the way I feel about feelings.

And that's all well and good, for a while.
After all, who doesn't have a sweet tooth these days?
But once the molecules in my throat
have melted away, gone is the glaze that
sweetened the taste in my mouth, and the dark thoughts in my mind;

smothering the taste of coffee with syrup
doesn't remove the stains from your teeth,
and then the more you do it, you find yourself with cavities
and heart disease.

so fixated on the idea of a father, just lately;
he's got a firm clasp on his own mouth
to stop himself from spilling,
wishing he could grip hard enough to
leave bruises
without thinking "look at me, becoming him"

pathetic, is what it is
shuts himself down with bitter thoughts and cruelty.
how ridiculous to look at mother's new boyfriend—
who she isn't even official with yet,
who she's only known for maybe four months—
and silently wish, more than wonder
"will i be calling you dad one day?"

his own dad, such a disappointment
that sometimes it gives him headaches,
trying to figure out who's more of a violent failure:
himself, or his father.
he has an ego the size of the moon
that compensates for his overwhelming insecurities
and hides his vulnerabilities;
but he can't escape his own self-loathing when there's
no one
to put on a show for

and since he grew up spending most of his days
alone and self-reliant

loneliness has been the best father he could ever ask for

I know what it must be like
to deal with me;
but I assure you
it's not as hard
as dealing with being me.

I simultaneously push people away,
keep them at a distance with falsities
designed to prevent incidents
like people actually getting to know the real me

and wish they knew enough to understand
why

why it is that I grew to become this.

He says he's getting feelings,
and I'm oblivious to what he means
even as my skin prickles and itches,
like there are flies crawling over it
and leaving their grubby, microscopic footprints behind.

He gets nasty about it,
and then I get it. Funny, that:
I only ever understand things
once demonstrated with aggression,
violence.
Or maybe not so funny at all.

And it's funny, because I just
don't believe him, and yet I do
at the same time.
He's a player and a cheat, but
he has a heart as he tells his side of the stories,
and I kiss his frown away.

Funnier still: they all have words to say about
him―the player, the cheat, the *******, the guys that
leads their friends on-
they talk about him
as if he dangles bait from the end of a string
in front of starving mice
so he can snap them up in his jaws and
swallow them whole,
only to spit them out later,
mangled and broken.

Perhaps a little like him.

I think they forget he has feelings too.

Even funnier still that
I feel like I'll be the one that breaks his heart
because I'm all well and good for liking him,
but my heart belongs to another,
and my friends, they like me, think me better
than the way I advertise myself;

I know they're wrong, because I know myself.
Always without intention, though often
without remorse, too,
I break the people closest to me,
snap them like twigs,
chew them up like defenseless mice
between my gnashing teeth,
and spew them up later
with the bile-burn of self-loathing,
mangled and broken.

Perhaps a little like me.

I think I forget I have feelings too.

i am sick and tired of people
trying to get to know me,
trying to figure me out,
trying to show me i'm better than i believe,
that i'm nicer than i make out to be

i'm not

you can't romanticize me
into being some kind of anti-hero,
into being some kind of lost soul who
just needs saving
or a hug

no, no hugs
please no hugging
i'll break your arms
physical contact? i can only accept that from a
limited few, on rare occasions.
it sickens me.

some people are imperfect and flawed,
irrecoverable,
and they own it.

sometimes you just have to accept
that some people are pieces of ****
and they like it that way.

i like keeping you all at arm's length,
at the very least

who'd ever want to let down their defenses
in front of
strangers

with grenades disguised as encouraging words
and guns disguised as empathy,
or sympathy...

i won't let your petty, loving instincts penetrate my armour

*******

just let me be my own villain,
and you can learn to hate me

as much as i do and don't hate myself

i think i could see myself
holding fragile life
in the palms of my hands,
a reverant look upon my face
as these eyes, harrowed by
sleepless nights and unsightly sights,
gaze down upon a being
wrapped in cotton blankets
that i love more than my own life

and then i could see myself
giving it up
because i do not know how to
stay loving;
i do not know how to be gentle

and i fear turning into my own father
by becoming a father myself

sometimes i want
to sing along
to a new song

i want
opposites, and new tricks
something more than this

i want new
and beautifully charged,
a zeal for life that's been unmarred

i want change.

ᴛʜᴀᴛ ғɪʀsᴛ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ﹐ sᴏ sᴏғᴛʟʏ sᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ
ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴛᴀʙᴏᴏ﹐ ʜᴜsʜᴇᴅ﹐
ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴇɴᴛᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ﹐ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ᴏғ
sʟᴏᴡ ʙᴜʀɴ
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɢɪᴠᴇs ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʜᴇsᴛ ᴘᴀɪɴs;
ʙᴜᴛ ɪᴛ·s ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ﹐
ᴀɴᴅ ɪ sᴡᴇᴀʀ ɪ·ᴠᴇ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.

i was happier a few months ago.
sadder, too, more depressed; but happier
with myself,
with my face,

with my body
(even if i didn't realise it;
"you never know what you have
until it's gone"
is true.
scrawny, underweight body,
sharp cut cheekbones,
jaw practically pushing out of my skin—i miss you guys)

my mornings were dedicated
to porridge
and being on time for college,
and coffee so dark, my friends asked:
"what's the point of using milk?"

the point, my friends, is that
even though i am dark
and bitter,
with a temper so hot
i have to spit it out
(in insults, in graphic descriptions of premeditated ******)
lest it scald my tongue—

there is still some good within me.
not much,
but there it is:
just enough to taste it
if you close off other senses and
focus. really focus.

i think it is about time
i sought out my self-destructive
methods of
happiness
once again.

i am tired
of feeling like my own enemy
when
i am already certain

that the world is out to get me.

all i want to do
is preach

about how much i don't care

like maybe
if i say it enough times

these idiots might finally believe me

If I shoot you down,
Please, don't take it personally.
I am a walking trigger warning;

It doesn't take much to set me off.
I explode at the slightest provocation
And make sure the cause

Is stained as red as my vision.
Your shirt might never be clean again.
Neither will I.

i want to love you
the way
i believe
that you should be loved.

but i can't.

beliefs and abilities:
often polar opposites,
rarely do they come hand in hand;
even the most devout Catholic
will sometimes miss
Sunday mass

but i do remember that Sunday,
so long ago now,
that you made me question
the possibility of soulmates

and i remember thinking
about how you bring me
closer
to religion than i've ever been,
your name
falling
(i'm not falling. i'm not
falling. please don't make me.
i hate that)
from my lips, like a heartfelt
prayer amidst our sin.

but that's the point, i suppose:
i don't believe in God.
i believe He is a possibility, but
i can't commit to Him.
won't.
can't commit to anybody—not even
myself.

so maybe i love you;
maybe that's true.

it doesn't change the fact
that i'll never be steady enough
for you.

it doesn't change the fact
that religion can't save me,
that the closest to the Bible i'll ever be
is a representation of
the Devil.

it doesn't change the fact
that i'll never be good enough
for you.

i want to love you
the way
i believe
you should be loved.

i just can't.

I dreamt—oh,
how I dreamt

that you were carrying
my child.

I do not remember who you were,
nor do I remember who I was
in this particular dream.
Perhaps a favourite character of mine
from a TV show I love.

But my body was not my body,
nor was your body yours.

In spirit, I knew you
and I knew myself,
and that's all that really mattered.

I still don't remember who you were, though,
my dream lover...

my subconscious desire?

We fell under peril and
ran
from some villain. Things
went wrong,
as things in my life are wont to do.

This villain, threatening
our child, our happiness,
was—of course—still less of a
monster
than me.

I do not recall how it ended.
But
I kissed you.
Soft, and sweet, and loving;
your lips were so warm
and your body, your hands—
they felt like
home.

That kiss...
it was perhaps
the gentlest thing I've ever done,

and so that is how I came to wake up:
because I knew it wasn't real.

I am not gentle. I do not love.

truth is,
i love you

and i ******* hate it

maybe you put too much faith in me

i'm agnostic, apathetic, aromantic
and too much of an antagonist to never let you down

you could drown me,
make me suffer for my attitude;
but i'll not atone for my sins

remorse is for the empathetic
and i am just

empathetic minus the em

you said you liked the way i made you feel,
said you've never felt happier than when you're with me

i said i liked the idea of you being home,
i said you could be the one that might make me fall

i can't describe this feeling

it's like i want to cry for no reason
(though i know i have plenty of them)

and it's 03:29 AM as i write this line,
wondering why i'm so obsessed with time;
but that's what insomnia does, i suppose

counting down the minutes,
like the more i acknowledge time slipping by, the faster it'll go

03:30 AM and i'm wondering
just how many of my poems have late night morning hours in them
and if anyone else finds the nauseating rhythm of
tick-tock's
as tedious as i do.

03:33 AM

sometimes it's not just my insomnia;
sometimes it's me, too

i can't help the way anxiety cripples my bones and
churns my stomach,
the idea of "lost time" haunting me

as if spending hours fretting over it
is somehow less of a loss than sleeping through those hours, blissfully ignorant
to the fear of missing something.

it's a fear that blankets me every other night, making the simple task of
closing my eyes
an impossible mission,
even though i know

i'm missing nothing.

00:36

i like the idea of bathing in a sunset
on the hills of Park Hall, overlooking landscapes and cities

being so far away from civilization
that my own breath echoes in my ears.

i would lie there, still, in the grass,
cool and warm at the same time,
thinking about how the shade of orange sunlight
softens city edges and makes them glow.

everything is always gentler in the sunset,
calm and still
to the point where even capitalism seems tranquil

except for me―forever rough around the edges,
rougher still inside, with bitter blackness
twisting its way through my veins,
anger cooking up a storm inside of me,
ready to boil over and scald--

those sunbeams, let them bathe me;
they'll not change me.
everything around me will soak up the light
and look beautiful doing so,

and i would be a silhouette against the ethereal bright,
faceless and
alone.

it's 23:53 and if i were to swear that this would be the last poem i write about you

i'd be lying

pain is a far more sustainable fuel than happiness;
it keeps the poet's engine whirring

and darling

all you've ever done is hurt me

00:01
i spent six minutes contemplating how much damage you caused,
the way you ran me off the road, swerving down dark paths i'd never known existed before

i didn't receive compensation for the emotional whiplash you left me with

the words "i love you" make my nerves twinge

"um... is he okay?"
"who knows? just leave him be"

"what a ****"
"he's alright"
"not really"

"what's his problem?"
"he thinks the world is out to get him"

do they think i cannot hear them?
whispering about me so blatantly

it's as if they've forgotten i have ears
or maybe they just don't care anymore.

if so, we're more alike than they'd care to admit
for i too have long since lost the ability to give a ****.

some family.

i tried to love;
i think i succeeded

but not like you,
not like them.

my love comes in waves,
fleeting and crashing;

it surges, strong,
then breaks against the sand

and i'm left with nothing but an empty shore

don't reprimand me
for doing as you do.

we both wear the wounds of warriors
on our skin like faded tattoos—

warriors, not survivors,
still fighting for our lives.

don't reprimand me
for doing as you do.

i know the bitter taste of hypocrisy
as well as you do;

we perpetuate these cycles
like we just can't help ourselves

and the way you speak of yourself,
some broken poem in love with its pain, hurts me

i will be angry, and i will lash out
i do not know how to function normally

emotions?
no thank you.

sociopath, little boy, *******, pathetic apathetic *******
what a ******* i am,

what does the label matter?
all of it overrides my love; you've made that clear.

what a failure,
always breaking the things i care about

like they cost nothing,
even though i feel the debt deep down.

i try, i try so hard to fix them,
to make up for sins that i didn't even commit

but

all i end up doing is adding my own to the list.

i asked you;
you lied.

i wondered,
"don't you trust me?"

i looked at you:
transparent, always a bad liar,

to the point where
it becomes enraging;

your lies mounting―
blatant, obvious

i looked at your sullen face,
felt myself grow bitter

i wondered,
"didn't our love once taste sweeter?"

i asked again;
you lied again.

i wondered,
"when did you regress?"

i wondered,
"when did we regress?"

it felt like
twelve steps forward, thirteen back.

maybe we're just meant to be
unlucky.

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

i never wanted to kiss her lips,
just hold her hand
maybe kiss her cheeks because she suited a gentler kind of treatment
something softer and more delicate, quiet;
quieter than the constant raging storms inside my stomach,
inside my mind
(never my heart)

those plump lips
she bit them raw when nervous, and they swelled
blossomed ruby as she looked at me
like she knew this wouldn't last
her eyes remained doughy and mellow
when i met her gaze.

my smile stung as it stretched the lines left by winter's bite
and split them open once more.
she brushed the blood beads away with her fingertips
with a touch so reverent that, for a moment, i thought
maybe she felt as though she were touching rosary beads instead,
and i held my breath to stop myself from chasing her
touch, and pressing her down into the mattress

unholy, chasing pleasure.
both agnostic, but she was much more pure than i;
chivalries always in mind, i wanted to preserve that.
there's always been something inside me
that presses down the animalistic urges with
a conscience caught on consideration and something akin to courtly love-
i wanted to woo her before i pursued her

but i never got further than pressing my lips to her forehead,
wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
i laced my fingers with hers but avoided tying any knots.
i am not a man to be bound,
too free-spirit, too restless, too claustrophobic;
a few months in and i was choking on the ghost of a future;
she kissed me first and i suffocated on the phantom of her hopes for us:
a future that didn't yet exist,
and i didn't want it to.
i never kissed her; i never let her kiss me again.

we tangled fingers over the duvet
the television a background noise to our unsteady breaths,
shallower
than my love for her
i enjoyed her quiet affection like one might enjoy curling into a blanket when cold and ill.
i wanted her smiles, i wanted to fill her memories with goodness
so that she never need feel hopeless, like all men are the same
so that she had something to smile about when she looked back on us;
once the bitterness of our breakup had left her mouth-
whenever that eventual end would be-
she could savour the taste of our sweet, slow-burn, love affair
and be reminded that not all love is true love, but nor is all love heart breaking

i broke her heart anyway.

nobody ever taught me how cruel kindness could be.

******* it, you left a heart at the end of your message and i felt my own lurch in my chest
i don't love you
i won't love you
but just for a second,
one precious, fleeting moment
you flirted with the fragility of my mind by showing me you cared
and, for a moment,
it felt like maybe i could;
maybe i could love you
but i don't

and i won't

i'm sick and tired of these mind games.
you push me away and pull me back
like a yo-yo, or an emotional punching bag
(what's the difference anymore anyway?)
always in equal measures
but i've never felt more imbalanced

i hate you for assuming things
i hate you for making me feel things
you think you're the only victim in this?
you're wrong
and every ounce of my self loathing could never make you seem right

i'm tired of your every word hitting home
i'm tired of the way your anger breaks my bones
i'm tired of feeling like every move i make is a mistake
i'm tired of you making me ill

for ****'s sake
just leave me alone
(don't)

i hunch my shoulders even though i'm trying to straighten my spine
i'm standing alone at this bus stop; the morning is darker and colder
than me, somehow. i clench my teeth against a bitter wind and
try not to think about the way i barely notice the chill cutting through me.
there's a death grip around my ribs - i struggle to inhale properly
but sometimes i find myself breathing just enough to make a small dent on the air

the combined weight of my phone in the left pocket of my skinny jeans
and my hand gripping my wallet in the right pocket
has my waistband slipping below my hips, jeans just-barely holding on,
and the precariousness of their position - half falling, half hanging -
has me thinking that they fit me better than they seem to.
i relate to them more than i've related to anybody in a long time.

the sun is only just rising at the edge of the eastern sky,
casting an eerie winter glow over this ice-bitten village.
i like these early mornings, my fellow villagers,
the few that are out and about as early as i am,
ambling sleepily to their sunrise starts
and even though i drank my morning coffee, i'm drunk on my lust for sleep.

i blink my bleary eyes and blatantly stare at the old couple
cautiously hobbling over slippery cobblestone,
walking sticks in their outer hands and inner palms clasped
together. the way they grip each other tightly tells me
they trust each other not to let the other fall;
the rings on their fingers tell me they fell for each other a long time ago
and i wonder how many times they pulled each other down over the years

as i catch sight of my bus approaching, slow behind a nervous driver
i'm left thinking about people, and college, and life
how everything seems simultaneously meaningful and meaningless,
all for something - yet, really, kind of all for nothing.
i could walk away and go home, settle into my bed and let sleep pull me under
away from my thoughts, naked and no longer bound by a binder,
comfortable in my skin the way i can never be in public

i don't. i step on the bus, and flash my bus pass at the driver
climb the stairs to sit in the front chairs by the windows
watch life pass by as the engine rumbles into motion.
i'm painfully aware of the way my ribs protest when i slouch in my seat
and my bed tempts me once more as i yawn into my weather-chapped hand.
i don't. college calls, friends await. perhaps it's all pointless
sometimes that's what my philosophy class teaches me
but i'd much rather live it out and see

please don't shake me
'cause i'm bottling all of this up and i don't want to explode
i'm begging you to keep my cap sealed shut
tight, so nothing spills
i'm not capable of cleaning up after myself so let's just do everyone a favour
and avoid making a mess

lately all my illnesses have me feeling backed into corners,
i feel so trapped, weighed down by debt and regret
i have no escape; this is the way my life is doomed to play out
and oh how i wish this were all just some silly game gone too far because at least then it'd find its eventual end
but no mother is about to tell the children when enough is enough
to apologise
say "sorry"
for locking me in the closet,
for making me want to stay in bed and waste the days away,
for making me hate myself so much that i'm convinced my disorders are more sane than i am.

these children know no boundaries
and worst of all is that they're my own; i am incapable of disciplining them, of taking control—
there's a reason i never wanted kids in the first place,
their ***** little fingers plucking at my brain and soiling my house.

Depression is the oldest—i had him before i even realised he was mine
Anxiety was next, and suddenly i knew why people used the phrase "terrible two"
i found myself juggling twins without really knowing where they came from: Suicidalthoughts and Eatingdisorder
once, i nearly gave them all up
as well as hope, and dreams, and life in general—
being a single father is hard.

i managed to put one or two of them in time-out for a while but there's only so long you can leave a child alone before it becomes
abusive
i tried my best at sharing the responsibility once
let myself fall in love only to find that it's not just children that can be abused—adults can, too
when i left her, my children's behaviour became so severe i almost felt like they were the ones that were heartbroken
that girl made everything so much worse

sometimes i wonder if i'd have opted for abortion, had i known i was going to parent such savage diseases.

00:31 and it's been about an hour since i saw you'd removed the word "happiness" from your caption
and ever since then it's been all i can do to
overthink; it's all i can ever do
wondering if, maybe, just maybe, you'd finally seen what i see
how i am not good enough for you

i lose myself inside these thoughts at night when loneliness is my only company
and darkness is my only right hand man, doing me no wrong
i think about the times i've held your hand and then suddenly
he hugs me tighter than anybody ever has, darkness, that old friend of
mine - something which you are yet to be... hopefully
i'd be yours, too, if you'd have me

but i'm overthinking again, just always overthinking
you said you needed time before we could begin now i'm starting to think we never will
i get the need for space, i really do
i'm just so insecure i feel like i'll be replaced by you

baby

you give me panic attacks

and i think about you, your smile, your laugh
how you removed "happiness" from your caption on that photo of us
and now i'm wondering if i was the one that did it somehow, thinking maybe i ****** up already
how is it that we're not even together and i can already feel myself rattling
my nerves responding to a break-up that hasn't even happened
i guess that's just part of how broken i really am

i closed my eyes and let my head hit the pillow three hours ago
how is it that i'm more wide awake now than i was then?
all i want to do is sleep yet here i am
my mind a merciless prison - i tell you: thinking murders me
i'm begging you to figure yourself out before my paranoid anxiety does it for you
please

i'm such an impatient man
patience is a virtue, they say, and i guess i have neither
patience nor virtue
just another of the many ways that
i'm not good enough
for you.

no matter
how hard
i try
i can't make my pain beautiful;
i can't make myself beautiful;
i can't make myself feel beautiful.

no matter
how hard
i try
i cannot convince myself that beauty
is a taste i enjoy on my tongue,
is a feeling i crave, that burning sensation
at the back of my throat,
on the back of my tongue

i cannot make an illness beautiful, for simply
it is not.
illnesses aren't beautiful, and they were never meant to be-
that's why people try to cure them.
in a world where beauty is the standard,
ugliness will not survive.
ironic, then, that illnesses are ugly
yet illnesses are becoming strategies
to achieving beauty

what an ugly concept.

concept: the more i *****, the skinnier i become
the more beautiful i am, right?
concept: the less i eat, the more i gain
concept: the thinspiration tag on tumblr has all of the
answers. so answer me this:
why am i so fragile? i feel my soul must be weaker
than the stick-thin bodies photographed for toxic aspirations;
surely they must snap like twigs whenever they fall...
i know the ease with which i break apart whenever i fall down

concept: i have friends and family that love me,
people who are attracted to me,
my friends' friends admire me, aspire to be like me
i should not be so insecure, so desperate to make myself skinnier,
more beautiful, more perfect.
bones are not the default of beauty.

bones are what survive beneath the ground when all else rots away;
these illnesses will have me rotting
before my bones can even finish growing.
there will be weeds and vines growing around my ribs, weaving
like a macabre masterpiece mounting the soil on which i've laid myself to rest
and my skeleton's skinless fingers, slender and spiraled into the ground,
will be the only thing about me that have ever had a grip.

lately i've been made up of broken sanity, loosely grasping
at the frayed edges of myself
as i come apart each night, again and again - my skeletal fingers
will grip this earth with a strength to rival my passion for nature
for while i will be dead, at least i will finally be
committed to something
i love.

what a shame that i'll never love who i am enough
to be committed to myself.

my ex wants me back.
i don't want her.
there she is, once again,
waiting, whispering
working her way into my cracks
winding me up and worsening my wounds,
whittling me into weaker wood

she makes me feel like i can't live without her
and the irony isn't lost on me.
she cradles me at stupid, sleepless hours
and serenades me with sweet, sweet symphonies
of everlasting silence,
songs of sempiternal slumber

i know my insomnia gets the better of me but
i don't want to sleep that badly
or maybe i do sometimes
but i think my mother would want me to wake up
maybe my friends, too
and no, she would never let me
she'd want to keep me, you see

my ex likes me in her bed,
it's her favourite place to have me
some call that vanilla but they don't know the things she does to me
when her lips brush my wrists
and that one time they teased my neck
******* it, she drives me crazy
has me ******* the sheets and sobbing into the pillows
my screams so loud, i choke
and lose my voice

sometimes my veins start pulsing with need
and she makes it so tempting,
slender fingers slipping over my skin,
sliding over my spine
"do it", she says
i want to submit to her, show her how much of a hold she has on me- no
i don't, i don't, i can't, i won't

my ex wants me back
but i don't want her.
i let her have her way with me
under the covers,
my sweet, sadistic lover
and then i turn my back on her
and sleep until the sun comes up to remind me
lightness still remains even if the darkness lasts longer.

1.
assert yourself as someone strong, someone capable
make it seem like nothing hurts you
it doesn't matter if you slip up sometimes - you're only human
but it has to be rare.
if you feel like crying, convert it to anger
let the rage overwhelm you to the point where you're blind with it
let it become so overpowering that it blinds everybody else too
the blind won't see your sadness; the blind will
avert their eyes
in fear

2.
you don't feel things like other people do
your emotions are never strong, unless you're feeling angry
or depressed
but you keep those quiet, only ever spoken softly
to close friends,
these secrets hidden like taboos.
you don't care, you don't love
don't let them convince you otherwise
show them how much apathy you have inside you by letting go of hate and love altogether-
when they cut you open, let them find nothing but bland organs;
your only colour is red because you do bleed
you're still only human
but you don't bleed your soul like ink onto journal pages
that would mean you feel something - and you don't

3.
never smile in photos, never smile in your selfies
let them see you're "fine" even if your eyes are shaded with Midnight's charcoal pencils
and lined red with Two AM's pencil crayons;
the coffee in your hand isn't a sign of exhaustion - you're just bitter
no milk, no sugar
this helps you succeed with steps 1 and 2 as well
you're strong enough to stomach the caustic nature of black coffee,
you can't feel it burn your throat on the way down
and you don't flinch nor grimace when it lingers on your tongue.
you've already bitten back enough of the harsh thoughts that try to slip out like saliva,
impossible to miss, impossible to avoid;
your tongue is numb to the taste of salts and sours,
of words so violent
they land blows significant enough to sign death sentences

4.
let them know that you
are a bomb
ticking, teetering, trembling with the temptation to trigger terror
your hands stay curled into fists that you'll rarely throw, always ready
always willing to go
no one will ever say another bad thing about you, and if they do
it won't be to your face
no one you know is brave enough to look Death straight in the eye and taunt him
by now your defenses are so thick and sturdy that they'll call them bomb shells
covering what's burning away inside you, unforgiving, toxic
but it's your cool, collected carvings of ****** expressions
that'll leave them with the most shell-shock.
and they'll never find out that the only trigger in you
is a self-destruct button
because you've always hurt yourself more than you've ever hurt others.
you keep it that way, and they'll never know how much

you
actually
do
care.

sick and tired of being painted as a criminal;
it's tainting my edges black, filling my body with blue
i think i might just wash it all away, rinse the colours off my skin
and stop myself from ever feeling anything, including you

i write about you
but you do not exist
or maybe you do;
maybe you do and i'm just talking to myself

maybe you're just another part of me that i hate so much
i have to talk to you,
i have to
punish you
because i know i shouldn't like the way it feels-
and i don't; but i keep coming back for more anyway

i amend: i know i shouldn't be addicted to this hatred
you tear me open and pull at my frayed edges
so that i split apart and lose my functionality - and i let you
then i let you thread me back together once more

you build my body with thicker wool each time, hoping that
one day
i'll be warmer, and harder to unravel
and you sew my edges with fragile promises of a better future
as breakable as the metal pin that bends between your crafty fingers

the materials started off so colourful at first, like rainbows
maybe that's why i'm so queer
though over time you started toning down my personality.
as my depression embroidered me, my sexuality dulled
purple and black and white and grey

you manipulate my patterns.
some nights i sleep through, others i don't sleep at all
and some nights my strings are stretched so taut across the nightmares
that one small pull will undo me

i am ripped apart then made into patchwork;
there are white seams over my arms
you call me a work in progress, damaged goods
to be fixed, to be mended:
you can't afford replacements

that doesn't stop you from looking
wishing you could upgrade me into something more,
something better
and every time i fall apart again
i'm left itching with apologies

but never to you; i never say sorry for hurting you
my only regrets are to those who become collateral damage.
i do not apologise to you
because you are me, and i am you
you are a part of me
and i hate you as much as i hate myself.