I purge sans binge
I ***** scars onto everyone around me.
My guilt: a summation.
Now, if I could only figure out why
I keep sticking fingers down my throat.

Oh amber, foam-ed memories,
cast about my brain.
The evening tide pulls me away,
sooner than later, I'm afraid.

She was like music,
and I longed to dance.

Her heart was the beat,
and I begged for the chance.

Her words were the vocals,
and I was put in a trance.

Her smile was the melody,
and I fell in love at first glance.

Taking pictures while you sleep
Leftovers on the table, strangers on TV
I'm bleeding from my ears
Sneaking out while you're asleep,
Cause you're my biggest fear

The first time I ever heard the term
"Manic-Depressive,"
I was seventeen.

I walked into Andy's house,
to see the oil of his father
splayed across the couch,
in a still pool of ink.

"That's my dad. He's
Manic-Depressive,
and just gets like that sometimes."

I painted that memory into the fire of my brain,
carrying with me the fever dreaming,
the terror,
the praying to never be
like Andy's dad.

I've collected Fathers like trading cards.
My first is the very common, "Abandonment Dad."
I've also got the "Distant Stranger and Sometimes Estranged Dad."
Then, I've got doubles of "Dead Dad."
If you have the rare "Decent Dad,"
I'd gladly trade a double.

Wrapped like candy in your skull
the skin crawling off the bone,  
exposing your white lie life.

"You'll end up the same as him, you know."

His cigarette burnt the faded complications of my life.

"Yeah. I know."

Weight presses
concludes everything,
decides what is nothing,
whips an errand boy to its whim.

Pressure,
withstood
at the promise
of jewels.