My theory about reality
is that it does not exist.

Reality is a figment of the mind,
which can be morphed, twisted, and altered,
based on how the individual sees fit.
Reality rests in one’s perception—
flimsy and weak.
It can be tweaked easily.
I used to do it all the time.

For a while, my reality was endangered,
because my mind was constantly hanging
off the edge of a steep cliff.
I fed it with colorful substances
that made my vision fuzzy 'round the edges
and left my fingers tingling
as if licked by electricity.

Manipulating my perception took on
a graceful, gradual easiness,
and life was less painful that way;
objects and thoughts became
murky, dull, and intangible—
like lying in a pile of clouds
and fluffy, cotton candy pillows
while the whole world passes you by.
Everyone you glance at
is in dark robes, their faces plastered
with stern expressions, but you
are the only one smiling
and the only one wearing white.

It felt nice, simply, and so
that’s why I did it,
and that’s why I did not stop.  

Facing reality is too difficult
when you are drained and feeble.
It’s a truth I still acknowledge
from time to time, when my feet
are too tired to walk and my hands
are too tired to play.

He was dead too, I believe—
deep, deep inside—
but he never let me see that weakness
even though I suspected it
and tried to find it.
I knew it was there in him,
that same thing I had that made my knees
wobbly. He was good
at pretending and perhaps
that was why I really loved him.

when I pour ***** **** on my wounds
so I can sleep in the pain
that burns a hole in my chest when I drain
away the **** with a side of *******;
it's as if I'm winning it all--but in the end
I've only lost myself in the fall;
from the finest of nights to the poorest of woes,
I'm throwing just for throws 'cause I've got nothing to hold
‘cept you when I'm gone, done escape from this world
to sounds of shot glasses shattering insane,
blood falling like rain;
"****, ****, I'm out--
I ain't playin' this game."

In too far, don't know how it'd begun;
Don't know the difference
between dying and fun, it's all the same--
There's lipstick smeared on my name, whiskey flaming
too bright ***** can't even put it out
so I shout, hoping you'll pull me out,
push me down, **** me out--
It's over, I'm done.

"I wouldn't say I'm happy," she breathes,
cigarette smoke drifting from her fingertips
and diffusing into her tousled, coffee-brown hair.
"But I'm not sad either, no--not exactly.
I feel very...empty. Yes, very much indeed."

We sit together at a small table
at a corner cafe
separated, but somehow a part of
the busyness of the city street.

As we sip our teas,
we watch the cars, people, pets
materialize, flicker, and disappear--
she, with a heavy, languid weariness
that peeks out underneath
her black eyeliner and dark eye circles;
and me, as if
I am looking behind a glass screen.

She laughs softly, bitterly.
Blows out more smoke.
Sips more tea.

I stare at the condensation forming
on the inside of my cup,
see the droplets accumulate only to fall
down again into my sea of tea.

"You see, life moves in circles."
With her cigarette, she outlines a rough circle in midair,
producing swirling trails of smoke that solidify,
then diffuse into nothingness.
"Infinite, never-ending cycles that take you
right back to the starting point.
It's happened always,
now, in the past, and
will continue to happen.
And it's an unstoppable force
that of which we have little influence upon.

"But no, cycles are necessary.
They are there in nature, and naturally
also exist in society."

She pauses.

"But there is an unspoken pointlessness
to this cycle of life."

She stops talking and so we drink our teas
together,
silently.

I don't want to be

one of those girls that need love

but I think I am.

sometimes when you aren't looking,
I gaze at you the way
a painter gazes at his artwork in a museum,
like you are mine but not mine all at once.

my eyes run along the scar on your forehead
to the brown leather shoes you have on your feet
and my hands comb through your thick, black hair
and trace lines on the back of your pianist hands.

I am inspecting you silently and wondering
why and how you have become mine
and asking myself in tiny whispers
why and how you will eventually leave me.

but you bicker and laugh with me
like you have not a care in the world--
like this moment with me will keep replaying for eternity
until we both drop down from old age and die--
and for a moment, I believe that too
so I pull a veil over my worries and smile.

Maybe tomorrow, I'll fade away
and all the mistakes I've made
they'll stay
and haunt the Earth for years to come.

yesterday, my body vanished
and found itself in somewhere new.
and when it awoke
a bed of grass lay beneath it;
a lawn of wildflowers
tossed among the green
like cherry tomatoes in a salad bowl.
the sun reached out behind
faint wisps of white, marshmallow clouds
and its light swathed my body
in dazzling streams of melted, glittering gold--
warming and kissing and seeping.
as my body watched the small birds flit
from branch to branch
throughout the meadow,
I think it knew
that I was absent--
****** into the real world
as if by a tornado.