The curse isn't worth the blessing.

I am a writer.
Sometimes I write words with a pen.
Ink spilling over a page in a mess of black and white, lapping up all senses of understanding in pools of inky darkness.
Sometimes I write words with paint.
Colors and colors coming together to make beautiful pictures, some as ugly as me.
Sometimes I write words with kisses.
Kisses on your cheek show my appreciation and kisses on your neck show my pleasure and kisses on your scarred hands show my loyalty.
Sometimes I write words with tears.
Tears that trace lines down my cheeks, glistening in pain and hurt. My tears have no voice, they are silent.
Sometimes I write words with screams.
I scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream and scream. Sometimes that is all I can do.
I write words with my voice.
Singing to you or to myself or to the heavens or to no one at all. My voice echoes off the walls that I put up around myself.
I write words with my fingertips.
Gliding them across your arms, your chest, your lips. Trying to draw you closer to me and getting nowhere because I haven’t been touching you at all.
I write words with my mind.
They don’t get read, and they don’t get seen.
But I write them.
I write words. I write words. I write words.
I am a writer.

4 letters.
one word.
a lifelong impact.
we’ve heard this poem before,
but for some reason we all have to write it
because it binds us to a person for all of time.
it shows my connection to you
from the moment we met
until death do we part.
because of a 4 letter word.
you came into my life and showed me emotions I had never felt before,
feelings I had never even heard of.
did you know that you were doing that to me?
making me think of you every single day
for the past 3 years?
there isn’t a moment that passes where I don’t think of you and that 4 letter word.
I came to you as a babe,
shiny and new and unused.
but now that you found me,
I’m broken in, softer, a little more pliable.
but I can’t be with anyone without thinking of you.
maybe thats a good thing.
see that 4 letter word messed me up a little bit,
handcuffing me to your wrist.
maybe that’s why I can’t hold someone’s hand without feeling your rough palm against mine.
I was drunk in that 4 letter word,
expecting to sober up the next morning.
but now I’m wasted, smashed, and completely ****** up.
all because of a little 4 letter word that you brought into my vocabulary.
a 4 letter word that’s anything but temporary.
a 4 letter word that left me in solitary.
a 4 letter word that threw me into a world that could only possibly be imaginary.
a 4 letter word that goes down in my lifetime’s obituary.
a 4 letter word that you copy and pasted into my personal dictionary.
a 4 letter word with meaning tied to it that is so intense, its scary.
4 letters.
one word.
a lifelong impact.
****.

Lie down with me.
We can sleep together.
For I have made this bed.
This bed of pillow and feather.
This castle of comforters with the towers of pillows and the throne of blankets and the crown of bliss.
It is easy to escape the stress and the work of the real world.
This bed is soft and cozy, always warmer than the air surrounding it.
Lie down with me.
Lie down in this bed and turn your life inside out.
I use this bed to leave behind everything I probably need to worry about.
A tickle in my back.
I cover my eyes with the sheets to get away from the fear.
The fear of you moving on and me staying here.
The fear of falling behind.
But this bed is comforting and calming and I don’t mind to fall behind, to fall into bed.
The tickle in my back grows stronger so I flip my pillow over to the cold side and bury my body in the soft, rolling hills of my comforter.
This bed is helpful to me.
You don’t see it yet but that is because you haven’t felt it.
I have slept in the bed of the gods and I know I will never leave.
The stars left their spots in the sky and they’re under the sheets listening to me grieve.
The moon tucked me in and promised never to deceive.
If you just listen you’ll start to believe.
The tickle in my back begins to sharpen.
This bed dulls the pain.
This bed.
This bed.
I love this bed and it loves me.
This bed is soft blues and softer pinks.
This bed is happy yellows and calming lavenders.
I wish you could see the sheets from underneath.
The tickle in my back has become a very sharp pain, and it’s stinging me over and over again.
But this bed will protect me.
Won’t it?
This bed was made for me to sleep in.
I lift my sheets and crawl completely under, happy to be protected and warm.
The stings in my back hurt.
Oh God, they hurt.
I rub at them because even with my body wrapped up completely in the sheets of my bed, they hurt.
My hand comes back ******.
I turn over to look at my bed and I see that what you told me is true.
I see why the only person who didn’t crawl into this bed is you.
I see why your heart has hurt, and my back has hurt, too.
I see what it is now that drove me off the rails.
I see why my ears only hear sobs and wails.
I see why the pain in my life always prevails.
I see that this bed I have made is a bed of nails.
I have fallen from grace, the slowest in the race.
This bed I use is just a brace, a brace to fill the empty space.
This realization I have to face, I have no pain I have embraced.
So I let this pillow case become a hiding place.
But this bed is wrong.
This bed is deceiving.
This bed.
This bed.
The nails grow longer and longer, into my back.
They push themselves into my spine and forward into my heart and lungs and stomach.
This bed has me trapped, unable to move.
The nails have grown through me, binding me to this bed for all eternity.
This bed is pain.
This bed is suffering.
I try to cry out to you for help but I’m buried under the sheets.
What once was comforting is smothering me now.
Wake me up.
What once was welcoming is poisonous now.
Please.
Wake me up.
What once was my bed is now my coffin.
I’m begging you to please wake me up.
This bed.
Oh, this bed.
This bed is evil.

I thought kisses were supposed to give you butterflies
but our love is a nuclear fallout.
and when you ripped my heart from my chest,
I saw the worst insects crawl out.
you told me I was great in bed,
but when you left,
you caused a meltdown in my head.
you put your atoms in my reactor,
expecting them to grow, but all they did was consume and glow.
they became radioactive,
and so did I.
your love burst right through me,
but I’m yet to die.
instead, I’m here
watching the people around me burn and suffer
and telling them them that its not my fault.
its my ex-lover.
I look around
and see their skin bubble.
I try to help
but I’m buried under your rubble.
the debris that you left when you made me explode
you’ve yet to pick up, to lift the load.
I knew that falling for you was a bad idea
and I’m feeling it now, I’m reaping what I sowed.
I disobeyed my rules of human preservation,
giving in to you was breaking my own moral code
and when I tried to block you out,
you took a side road.
you put it in gear
and drove into my heart.
but the pain I felt
wasn’t the worst part.
because when you put it in reverse,
you had become my foundation and I fell apart.
now I’m in pieces on the ground
scattered around, unbound,
thinking that you should regret it
but its the other way around.
because I still love you and your stupid eyes
the way they light up the skies
I forgave you of your sins
you’ve been baptized
but I advise you to stay close to your allies
and make sure they hear your cries
because I’m a bomb wearing a human disguise,
and when my anger does arise,
you’ll meet your demise.
you made me what I am,
a battering ram
with enough force to break hoover dam.
you used to be the lion but now you’re the lamb.
because here I come with the grand slam.
please ask me if I give a ****.

how many times have I compared you to a wonderful piece of art?
your veins, your angles, your eyes, they all lead to your heart.
your face is worthy of a cathedral’s ceiling,
but I can’t compare it to what I’m feeling.
I scream to the heavens that they need to close the gate.
what’s the point of waiting in line when heaven is your touch, and it feels so great.
your eyes are the Monet that was never hung up.
the way they blend together from far away, but up close I get so strung up,
trying to figure out how they blend together,
browns and golds and greens and yellows, I give up, whatever.
your smile is my favorite Van Gogh,
how your dimples glisten and your teeth glow.
I love when your lips twitch at the sight of something that makes you happy,
it can make even my worst days feel a bit less ******.
but there’s a bit of Frida Kahlo that you can’t contain
because in those Monet eyes of yours I also see pain.
and I hate when I see it but I also see your Sylvia Plath,
because when that smile disappears all I can see is wrath.
and after you laugh I hear your Emily Dickinson,
the silence that follows is your eternity prison.
but don’t get me wrong.
you aren’t just the primaries; red, yellow, and blue.
the gallery dedicated to you is long overdue.
because what I see in those eyes of yours
is that pain isn’t something you’ve yet to give in to.
and I know the world in itself is a huge piece of art.
but the only painting I’m looking at is you.

Ever since you found him, brought him up, tried to make him someone you wanted him to be, he has always found a way to go against you. He's always thrown stones at the stained glass you carefully pieced together to form such a beautiful boy. He's always spray painted the walls of the cathedral you built to honor such a beautiful boy. He's always soiled the canvas you were painting on when you made such a beautiful boy.
There is no more beautiful boy.
Your golden boy is gone.
I'm so sorry that he cut off his own fingers just to keep from holding your hand. I'm so sorry that he broke his own nose just to keep from smelling the flowers you brought him. I'm so sorry that he knocked his own teeth out just to keep from saying he loved you.