You find love in a beer and a body part
You find love in *******. In pretending. In power.
You find you feel powerless. You find yourself scared.
You run
Taking with you your end of the tin can telephone we made together
My fingers hold tight. Wrapped around the cylinder like a grenade
I wont let it explode
"I'm sorry" you whisper. "This isn't what I want"
Your head turned, doubt flashes like lightening
Electric across your face.
Then stop running, I shout.
"This is the only way"
Your oblivion. Your fears. Your ignorance.
They cloud your ability to hear
And suddenly you aren't receiving
And so I run to you
Grab your resistant wrists with my fists and plead
Press my excuses into your skin and beg that you stay and absorb them
With a cloth and some bitter spit, you wipe my words away.
The truth gone
Only your notions of what it means to be loved remain.
But I could have.

My lips feel heavy,
as I watch you fill yourself
with toxic waste.

Disgust bubbles hotly,
but no judgement
will I ever speak.

After all,
I wouldn't want you
to judge me for my
cup of ice against your
plate of pasta. My dark
circles against your
rosy cheeks.

Shaking tremors
make me tap at the
table in between us.

What do you see
when you look at me?
Beauty? Or bones?

When I look at
you, all I ever see
is a life I will
never have the luxury
of living. Mouthfuls of
treasure I'll never
be able to think
of consuming.

When I play pretend,
I always pretend
to be you.

And it's always
better than I
ever think it will be.

Even when the
consequences of
being you fill
my mouth with bile
over a pure white
basin, the memories
are still worth it.

Still enough,
to get me through
another week.

Today I remembered the weekend we made cupcakes. Batter dotted our skin, and we kissed it off each others faces.

I remember falling asleep on your basement couch, curled against your beating chest. We watched movies the way a nicotine addict smoked cigarettes. Our relationship a reflection of blue-light on our faces.

I wish we'd been as innocent as the cartoons we watched in my bedroom. Instead we crumbled like corporations in Fight Club. The irony is a bitter taste in the back of my throat.

All for nothing I fell asleep in my hospital bed. Clinging to thoughts of you to send me to dreamland, until the day I found, that I'm much more prone to nightmares.

It was then I realized our love story was a tragedy. That maybe all love stories were.

I used to slice my thighs apart
in emptiness
and a feeling I don't really know how to describe.
I'd sit under the shower jets,
let the water pool in all the creases of my body
and cover my ears with my hands,
put my face through the heat,
the sound not the shower,
but a storm,
Like the whole world was raining on me.

I've still got a cloud over my head sometimes,
and I know my lightning will come back.
I'm not sure if I hate or love that storm.
I am positive that I don't need it.

The night I convinced myself
I was tied with ropes
to the demands of others,
and I could only
cut myself free,
was the night that began
                           the free fall
                               of my own perpetual
                                   freedom.
     When I realized I could
do anything I wanted
behind closed doors
because there was absolutely
no way anybody could restrain me.
Unfortunately, as the world
sometimes decides,
the things that made me happy
were the things that made others upset, uncomfortable,
disgruntled them
because they could not see
the beauty I did
in a collection of scars
the storybook on my body
in the smoke rising from my lips.
The things that made me free
also, are killing me.
But no one can seem to see
the absolute romanticism
in the control of my own death,
                                           freedom.

a booth for two
and a light for dimming
my feet placed across from me
on the empty seat
where she would be,
my usual,
my only drink,
leaving a watery ring
of the the patterned wood
and there's an empty spot
where hers should be.
the waitress wants to talk
and I think she'd listen
but what would I say
if I couldn't find the words
to try to fill that vacant booth
or to explain
this love
combined of my coffee and of
my aquarius, usually
on the opposite seat,
that I simply cannot
fathom.

I have to tell my heart that I am worth living for
I argue with my legs that I am worth supporting
I promise them that one day I'll take them to new places
I tell my hand that I’m worth holding
But sometimes, I tell myself to let it go
Because I really don’t have reasons for any of them
All I have is hope
That they don’t leave me in my own shadow
My shadow only sticks around because Peter Pan stitched it to my feet
I don’t blame it… I would leave me too
That’s why I don’t blame the people who choose to not stick around
They choose another person's life to live in
I like going to movies by myself
I would rather read a book than write my own
I know that I’m weird and I accept that as "good"
So when others tell me what I already know
I pretend that they’re not saying it with negativity
Like it’s been done typically
I know that I stick out
I wear really bright clothes and I’m obsessed with my shoes
I’ve never listen to them, but I can feel the rhythm of  blues
I feel like Chicago blues get her lyrics straight from my life
I’m still trying to convince myself
That missing myself is worth fixing myself
I don’t have an argument that I’m worth all the effort
But once I stop… There’s no one left
I’ve been on my own for a long time
And my tears don't quench my thirst anymore
My arms are sick of only having me to hold
My chest has swallowed my pride
My mind and my body have left me alone
I would leave me too

And thus,
Mistakes were made
And the light,
Turned out.

Still,
Shining in the dark
Was her smile.

Next to us,
Sat our spirit,
But within,
Next to nothing.

Dreaming
the way things should have been
or wanted to be.

“Next time,€"
they said.
Next time,
It would turn right.

And in a way,
He was correct.
Thought out,
Planned.

It was beautiful.
And she liked that.

Going through the motions of life without the ability to feel.
I will not allow myself to be altruistic, to have love.
I am mechanical.
I am a fine tuned machine.
Made in your image.
Going through the motions of life.
Watch me be perfect.
Your definition of real.
I'm cold.  I'm gone.
Save me from loneliness.
Save me from the hyperborean dungeon of my mind.
Save. Me.
My heart has turned to pistons and steel.
Bloodless and without flexibility.
Pumping anguish and self-hate with every inspiration I take through my veins, my newly welded pipes.
Lacerate myself to see if I still bleed.
It feels better than the truth.

i look over black and white words, but this isn't what i want
this isn't the sanctuary i was looking for
my eyes gaze over it unnaturally and it
feels a little bit like a graveyard, which is okay
but it's not the graveyard i anticipated it being
and the question lingers
do i start digging again?
the untouched bodies groan at the shovel's presence
all they want is peace.
should i, then
interrupt the still ground
off to the side somewhere
give birth to a new set of disappointing graves
marking my territory
in the saddest way