I'll take my chances,
so just take back your promise.
Because,
as soon as your interest advances,
you won't remember the time you said you were
harmless.

You said "Fall,
I'll catch you.
I was so small
before I met you.

Every night, I want you to call
so by the morning I won't forget you."

I told you I was afraid,
I said I was not sure.
Because,
every time I have been betrayed,
I think I have decayed a little more.

I said, "I've heard of forever,
is that a myth, or just a lie?"
He goes, "Take my hand, we'll can go wherever,
and I'll remind you everyday how our love will never die."

He took my hand,
and said, "Close your eyes.
Where we stand, is where we shall rise."

For some reason,
I believed you.
But now I am in a darker season,
one I'm still trying to weave through.
I just want to identify this treason,
even though I'll probably forget
just as quick as the naive
do.

I gave you my word,
You lent me your heart.
I thought you were my angel,
but instead,
you were the raven from the start.

So after I gave it my all,
I can only regret you.
Did you just want to see me crawl?
Well, you're a fool

if you think I'd let you.

When I finally drop it,
             my face will then shine
                                             with the empty
                                             expression of This.

I will at last
               smell
                   the beauty in all
and, the nothingness of those
                  whom are doomed.


                                               I'll dig the earth
                                                              with pride.
I will smile at the sun,
                               who is so strong.


                 On my back
                      and aching knees
                                             I shall cry out the joy
                                             of my Aliveness.

I will leave the expecting,
              and the seeking
   because
                                                  there is no other one
                                                    and it lives
                    
                                                   *inside me.

black ink
           on the tips of fingers.
   I dipped them
         in to get a feeling for the thickness
         I would be swimming in.

stickiness
           left behind:
  hard to breathe in,
                            and even harder to define.

I'll compare
     to the trash on fire,
                        stamped out by rain
                              a thick, mottled stain.

black ink
           smeared across veins.
      I've settled for alternatives;
           Silly, sing-song alternatives.

black ink
           smeared across veins.
       the thickness remains,
       even after I've washed it away.

I am tracing
             the lines,
      drowning.
                                Heavy mottled lines
                                                              left behind.
  
               hard to breath,
                             and even harder to define.

The skin                 I have earned
on the edge            I have made
of my eyes             see the worth
touches tears         in my mind
as the skin             I have earned
on the edge           I have made
of my hands          that I feel
touches tears        in my mind
and it grows         (and it grows)
and it grows         (and it grows)
and it grows         (and it grows)
until all of             the blood that
you have               given to me
been ******          through a straw
inside me              into you
until all of             the blood that
you know             I don't know
what it means       in the end
to be *****            or too clean
and free                from release

to dust                  from the dirt
on the front          not the back
of my shirt           with the stain
touches tears        in my mind
as the dust            from the dirt
on the front           not the back
of my chest           with the scars
touches tears         in my mind
and it knows        (and it knows)
and it knows        (and it knows)
and it knows        (and it knows)
until all of             the blood that
you've been          give me you
dropped dead      by the warmth
in my name          that is me
until all of             the blood that
you go                  where I'm not
to the time            if there is
where the             love that stings
cosmos is             oblivion

the blood             beyond blue
on my neck          that you kissed
from the sun        and the moon
touches tears       in my mind
as the blood         beyond blue
on my wrist         that you kissed
from the moon    and the sun
touches tears       from my mind
and it goes          (and it goes)
and it goes          (and it goes)
and it goes          (and it goes)
until all of            the blood that
you turn as          I'm standing
cold as the           earth in you
ice on me             flowing over
until all of            the blood that
you throw            for the time
all your lies          create eyes
and beliefs           to be free
out to sea             you were me

bandaged finger tips
I've burned myself on you
                                        -not once,
                                         but twice.

It is a damage I have brought upon myself.
My fickle heart and mind tripping on the wires
I have planted time and time again.

I'm burned to the bone --
                                            too damaged
                                            to know
                                            any better.

And, I tell myself,
you can never burn yourself on me
because I am not enough for you.
No bandaged finger tips
to trip you up.

I've burned myself--
not once,
but twice--

                                  on you.

I do not know who I am writing to anymore.
Faces blur to pages to chapters
of the never ending story that I write
as I walk through the waves of indifference.

Sea foam splashes over drying ink
and curling parchment in ways that
blend background and foreground into
nonsensical images of insanity.

I write blank letters left with open
spaces and unfilled lines waiting for
a name or a pronoun or even a shimmering
idea of who to place there.

The final line is always the worst
with "love" and "yours always" and
"sincerely" hardly meant before
the name I know even less than yours:

     *my own.