I thought about killing myself today...

again

for the ump-teenth time this month.

I was wearing that yellow polo
and thumbing through the pages of a book
of poems
by Bukowski

if I could only write like him,
I thought --
then I’d be somebody.

I don’t even like that shirt

but I wear it anyway
because
it’s comfortable.

maybe that’s exactly
how I feel
about my
on-again-off-again
relationship
with my
suicidal thoughts –-

I’d never actually do it,
I tell myself

I just like to think about it
because
it’s
comfortable.

oh --
we’re such silly creatures of habit
aren’t we?

this is the shard I’ll use.
it’s just a small, broken piece of glass,
but I figure it’ll do
just fine.
there’s nothing particularly special about it,
aside from the fact that it broke off a picture frame --
a picture frame that you gave me.

a picture frame holding a photograph
of us together.
I look at it,
and while I remember it well,
it still feels like it was
another lifetime ago.

why is it that when I think of you
during the day,
when I’m straight,
the David Bowie song “Queen *****”
immediately comes to mind?
can it simply be because you became
a tremendous ***** near the end?

no, that’s too easy.

cheap shot.

of course
it wasn’t all bad.
we were good,
you and me.
and when we were good, you know, it was...

we had our moments,
as few and far between
as they may have been.

...and they were fleeting.

no matter how hard we tried
to hold onto them,
they would drift away
and then we'd forget.
that was the hardest part --
the forgetting.
it always was.

it still is.

but when I think of you now,
late at night,
when I’m like this,
you’re still so
******* perfect.
you were always perfect with the lights off.
away from the world.
maybe it was selfish of me to want
to keep you there

away from the world.

uncorrupted.

perfect.

maybe once again,
I’ve just got infatuation
all confused
with love.
maybe that’s all it is --

all it ever was.

can you blame me?
it seems like that’s what
always happens right before a
crush
becomes a
grudge.
and boy, do we really know how to hold onto those.

at least we have something
to hold on to.

yes,
this is the shard I’ll use.
I figure it’ll do
just fine.

Today –-
I think I’ll go
play in traffic
like I used to when I
was a kid

...just for old time’s sake.

I wonder
without my
wide eyes
bushy tail
and dimples
will the headlights
even bother to swerve
this time?

the underside of
a ******* prius
being the last thing
I’ll ever see

at least it gets better mileage
than I ever did

my guts
spilled out across
boiling asphalt

they belong there
they were wasted
inside me

someone should waste me too

Every New Year’s Eve I make the same resolution:

                  “Come next New Year’s Eve,
                     my life will be better
                     than it is right now.”

It has not happened yet.

And I see no reason why
it should happen this time either.

One-fifty-two a.m.
Eleven beers.
Almost a liter of *****.

I really should be going to bed.

****, I should have gone to bed hours ago...

Maybe one more beer
will help me hold on.

Does this couch just feel
that much better than my bed?

Or maybe it has something to do
with these antibiotics
I’ve been mixing
with excessive amounts of alcohol?

Maybe?

Just maybe I don’t want to get better --
-- to feel better.
Maybe I want this flu to consume me
and swallow me whole.

If that won’t work
perhaps I really do
want to drown
in distilled potatoes
and fermented wheat
barley
hops

Is it possible –- isn’t it?

What the hell do I want?

Do I even know anymore?

I know I wanted you.

I wanted you
more than anything.

You were wearing a real short skit,
and I had a real short fuse.
For sure it was a bad combination...

...but that don’t make it a good excuse.

When the dust settled
I guess we both realized that neither of us
would ever see the sun again...

...not as long as we were chained together.

God-*******-******!

Why does everything I write
turn out to be about you?

Why?

Why do I still think about that one night
when we were outside in the rain,
when you told me that I looked just like James Dean?

Why?

I wish then I would have told you
that it doesn’t mean a ******* thing...

...because with the lights out babe,
every girl is Marilyn Monroe.

Not just you.

I used to hope
that when this was over
you’d still
remember me.

But now that it’s over
I can’t stand the fact
that I can’t stop
thinking
about
you.

Two-oh-nine a.m.
Christ, I really should be going to bed.

Maybe I’ll be able to forget you then --

-- maybe you’ll stop polluting
every decent thing I try to write.

I doubt it though.

I get the feeling you’ll be sticking to
my ribs
and hanging on
my heartstrings
for a while to come.

Hopefully one day
someday soon
I’ll finally be
done
with you.

And at last I’ll finally see the truth --

We were just

two

dumb

kids

with jealous hearts

that ******* fell apart

when bombs

explode.

There was this girl --
she wasn’t just a girl
not just any girl

She was the girl
who looked at me different

She looked at me unlike
any other person
looked at me

Friends, strangers, my own parents
no, she looked at me differently

Not with disapproving eyes
not with disappointment

no contempt
no shame
no regret

Not even with wonder

or amazement

or excitement

When she looked at me
she didn’t see what I once was
or what I could one day be

She didn’t see past mistakes

or wasted potential

or squandered talent

She didn’t see goals
that were too great to achieve
or dreams that were abandoned
and never to be realized

She didn’t see the boy
that grew up too soon
or the man
that didn’t grow up fast enough

She didn’t see me lost
in the wilderness of my own doubts

my fears

my demons

She didn’t see me drowning
in the sea of my own self pity

my apathy

my bottles

She never saw any of those things

When she looked at me
all she saw was me
just me as I was
naked and bare
skin and bones and hair and nails

She saw me open and empty
waiting to be filled
and then emptied again

Somewhere in there she saw a soul
or at least the small spark of one
a soul that must have meant something
that must have been
worth sticking around for

It must have meant that I was there
that I was present
at least in some capacity
I cared
cared for her
for something
anything

Now I sit and wonder
what happened to the soul

I wonder where it went
where it could have gone
I wonder why it left
how it went away
what I did to destroy it

I must have destroyed it
because she doesn’t look at me anymore
there’s nothing left
for her to see

those eyes are gone
and I miss them

I should have appreciated them more
looked into them
reassured them

I should have figured
that one day
they wouldn’t be there
to look at me anymore

I just didn’t see
how tired they were
her tired eyes
tired of me

What I wouldn’t give for someone
to just look at me
like that again

if only just once
just for a second

She never saw any of those things
when she looked at me
and neither did I
when I looked at her

why don’t you go for a swim
in the river
wearing
concrete shoes?

something to do
to ****
some time

a good way
to ****
your
lover
too

surprise, surprise
I couldn’t find a bar
tonight
at least not one
that would have me

or fulfill my dreams

now I’m sobered up
and looking for a fight

so tell me...

have you ever heard
the sound
of raindrops on the rooftops?

or a heartbeat in the backseat?

it's hard to see the car crash
with your hands over your eyes

so keep off my doorstep
stay away from my soul
you can’t have this one

I’ll save it on my own

but it doesn’t
really
matter:

I’m already
dead.

so I guess the only
question is:

a bullet
in the kneecaps?

or this cigarette
I swear will be
my last?