Long, long ago,

Around that time when the sun hung high,

I would have gladly taken your hand

And led you to the place where there are no worries.

Led you to that place

Where dandelions are not weeds

And all could be free.

Long, long ago,

Around that time when the sun hung low,

I would have gladly tread the road

Where between the wealthy and the rulers,

Only the strangers go.

Where we would fill the dimmed streets with laughter,

And share our woes.

And not so long ago,

When the moon pressed out

From behind the midnight clouds,

A landslide of firearms swept you up

And carried you away from familiar homes.

And now you’ve got your guns,

And I’ve got my silence.

The days are becoming a blur. A sickening blend of everything and nothing. You could almost call it a bad high - if it had any of the slightest pleasure of one. I have felt too much, and now I have become too little. I have negated myself and I am a walking dream in this waking nightmare. Now if only I could remove myself from the equation.

I feel so heavy. And my bones, with rusted joints, need far too much care and coaxing to move. And I'll be honest - it hurts to stay in bed all day. But it hurts to make myself exist, too. It hurts to breathe. What is the point? How can I help anyone - how could I love anyone - when I can barely take care of myself?

I keep waiting for my knight in shining armor. I keep waiting for my true love to materialize out of thin air, here to save the day and tell me that everything is going to be alright.

I keep writing, as if it will keep me numb and from feeling.

And as much as it burns my lungs,
I keep breathing.

I keep hanging on, for some possibility of a promise that the air will clear and the sun will shine through the dust and smog, and bring me a beautiful day, and a beautiful love -  and I will wipe the mud from my face. And by the grace of god, maybe one day, I will be beautiful enough to deserve.

One of the very rare times
that you hold me in your arms, of your own accord
I look into your eyes
and realize, in horror
that this is not enough.

you are not enough for me.

and that the hurt outweighs the laughter
and the shame outweighs our joy
and for all my tears -
every fear -

you are no longer
and have never really been
my beautiful boy.

This year
You were a liar
And so was I.

The beat of my heart went unanswered
And your biological responses left unchecked.

I was alone
And you were smiling in the next room.

There was death.

Death of people
Death of friendships
Death of trust
Death of love.

My birthday was just another day.

And your gift to me,
The same as always
More oil to keep
This monstrous engine running.

every night I walk the dark
the burning headlights blinding
I pray to god id catch an eye
and in the street, they’d grind me.

Resilience is the most cursed gift
The hand that never tires of holding
And how eager the heart is to hurt.

Forged between the veils of anger
Of sorrow
Of wretchedness.

We beg like children
To never feel the heat of the same tears
Wetten our faces.

But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.
But the past shall repeat.

I hear the electricity humming above me as I make my way back on the long dark road. Lampposts scarce, my way is illuminated by the irregular volumes of light pouring from the cars that pass me by. I catch glimpses of roadside carcasses  in the abstract light, and through my open mouth.

The path is clear but it is jagged. My canvas shoes have gotten wet from the shallow puddles I couldn’t see.

Sometimes it is dark. It is lonely. There are no cars, carcasses, or other urban romantic ideas to keep me company in my travels.

Sometimes I get so focused, furiously typing. I end up in the middle of the street. A horn blares. My heart catches in my stomach and I correct my failed trajectory.

It is 7:43 pm on a Saturday night at the end of February and I wish you were here to walk me home.

There is a wrongness in this life that I cannot place.

There is something about the world that I wake up in every day
that makes it feel less and less like home
each time I open my eyes.

Something is missing.
Something is wrong.

As if I was transplanted here against my will
the wrong blood type, the wrong time
the more I try searching for meaning,
there is even less that I can call mine.

My vision blurs
and I beg my heart to let me see beyond.

There is so much more worth bargaining for
than exists here
on this day
in this life.

Sick in the sun,
and searching for the moon

The beacon to call me home.

what do I do
when there is
seemingly
no amount of love to ease the pain

no matter how soft the kiss
how rough the ***
how sweet your words
there will always be the stinging

soreness

burning

here, to remind me
the things you hid
the things you did

the pit in my stomach
the hole in my chest
I should probably brace to receive

again,
such sordid gifts
from my liar lover.

Everything I am is too much.
I am an assault to the senses,
and no longer do I dare
to brush against your heart
for fear of an allergic reaction.

I listen to the voices of other men.

They tell me that I am a goddess,
worthy of all the love and lust in the world.

I listen to the music of their voices on repeat
artificial, prerecorded sweetness and affection.
Adoration and attention.
Sometimes dusted with lust.

Words that no longer come
from my own lover's lips.

Most nights I put myself to bed alone.
I smoke til I'm dizzy and I tuck myself in.
I wait for the opening of my door -
The creak of the bedroom floor -
but I fall unconscious
far beyond the point where you finally join me.

And some nights I feel you pull me close.
And you whisper "I'm sorry".

I cherish the few moments I have with you
As brief and as warm as they are,
they are fleeting.
But my love for you is not.

I remember the first time you put your hands on me.
I remember feeling the fire in your heart,
and tasting desire on your tongue.
I remember the way it felt to lay against you
and how perfectly our bodies seemed to fit together.
It was like we were hand crafted for one another.

do you remember?

And then, slowly
but ever certain
the fire bled out until it was but an ember -
barely glowing among the ash.

I'm so cold now.
Your body used to keep me warm.
Your breath kept my heart beating.

But now, I am alone
and I am cold
and all I have left to keep my heart humming
are these bittersweet memories
of honeymoon passion
played over and over again in my head.

like your favorite **** star on repeat.

time after time
after time
after time

we repeat the appropriate
expected
scheduled mantras

as if they still have meaning
as if they promote feelings
as if the syllables are different now
in number, as the words leave our lips

the bittersweet

wishing for a time
before time
before time

when the resistance of regret
was as foreign to us
as wilted blossoms to seeds.

There is a point I come to every day on my walk to work. An outlook, messed and marked by tall grass and weeds. You can see beyond the valley there, to the low rolling mountains of the Allegheny. Sometimes when the sky is just right, you can even see the smoke stacks of the power plant near my old home.

Most days, I pass by this vista.
I can't bear to look it in the eye.
It reminds me of the wideness of the world, the fear that touches me when I speak of leaving. The dreams that I have spent like breath - time and again - departure from this life.
To leave the job that kills, the friends who've forgotten, the lover who cannot remember how to love.

Most days I walk past.
I will not lift my head.
But the vast emptiness of the space between me and the world, the openness, the cold and absence of safety, with no promise of home... it calls to me.

Like the angry seas to young sailors, it cries my name. Something unsure. Something more.
Something that will nurse, something that will drown.

It beats me down.

And I will let it beat me til I break.

I used to paint myself to plastic perfection. By the buzzing light of my squalid bathroom, I would paint a portrait of a queen on an otherwise less stunning, far less beautiful canvas. Synthetic eyelashes, artificial pigments and all, I was something to devour.

And as I adorned myself in little more than lace and elastic, I felt less like a plastic gem. I felt far more like a diamond, primed and ready to be displayed to an endless array of lost souls from every dark corner of the internet.

I had never been more lauded in my life. I was some sort of ethereal creature to worship.

But only as much as I was a ***** to purchase.

And all too quickly, the gems lost their sparkle. The tokens lost their shine, and I lost that glimmer in my eye.
As much as I was a work of art to inspire, I was cheap, and thrown together. Meant to be torn apart.

And now, so many people own so many parts of me. So many secrets.
I cannot even own myself.

I am at a constant war with myself
Whether I should cake-face or remain nameless
Comfort in my own flesh...
I have never known it.

How do I further beautify this body I despise?
Not so that I love myself more, but to inspire a fire -
Your lust, your desire?

What am I doing with my life
locked in my head
thoughts on repeat
playing in reverse
like a record in my mind
my brain never wired quite right
my mind never one to keep me
myself
or my heart
in tune
with the spinning of this world
getting faster
getting sicker
more bloated than ever
in the place I must call home

I blink hard in the darkness of the evening light, struggling to find your eyes. I find your mouth instead, soft and gentle against mine, pleading for my tongue and so much more. I find your hands - and I feel them move up my body. You leave impressions of your fingertips on my most hidden skin for the first time. For each chill you send down my spine, I gasp and moan into your ear, hotter and hotter each time. But still, I cannot find your eyes.

Instead, I find you less soft, less pleading - more demanding than ever. How could I deny you - how could I deny myself? The hottest dream I've ever dreamt.

And the only way to measure the passage of time is how many times I feel you, again and again, for the very first time. Your skin against mine. Our breath fogs the window. Your hands in my hair. Sheets strewn, bodies bare.

Babe, you took me there.

“I’m gonna get it done this year.”

I speak the words, just above a whisper. Some sort of self assurant mantra, but mostly I speak them to you. You - two feet away from me.
You - two million miles away.

And as my lips shut, my heart opens, like always. Waiting for some sort of response.  Some kind of reassurance that you have the pride and hope in me that I always seem to lack in myself.

But you - two million miles away, with your nose buried in the vapid pixels of your phone.

My heart closes yet again.

I’m gonna get it done this year.

Done.

This.

My demons are my best friends
The ones who hold me in my times of need
Who press themselves into me
Without me ever asking
Despite my protests

They sow the seeds of anguish
Amongst the fields I reign
Like plague they reap
Before I may ever thaw.

I am the eye.

Oh god, I am the eye, and I have seen
Enough vulgarity to burn ******-skin
Obscenity in corrupted files
One upon one and another.

And how much I would love to gouge
This golden honey brown from my skull
Feel the chill upon my temple to help me forget
Forget and forgive, forget and forgive
As if it had never happened.

I am the breath.

I am the breath and the poison
The only reckoning I have to offer
In words like mustard gas
How I would boil your flesh in hatred
Rage and despair.

Wistful weapons to bring you home
Fragile shield against my heart
Nothing to hold close.
Nothing to push apart.

No hope and no mercy.

Trust is feigned.

I am the eye, and I am the breath.
My love is gone, and you wear his flesh.

I am the eye. I am the breath.