you claw from under the sheets and scream and
you bite me if i grab back.
wrap your arms around my neck and hold tight,
and swing, and snap.
what is your obsession with the blinding white of bone?
i know you feel, you're not so sure.

is your feel blinding, white, knuckles-wound-tight heat?
is it ice against your teeth, freezing lips and death blue?
lift off, we are go into the nowhere of your eyes.

i can't protect you but i'll try; your ****** hands match
blood red sclera once white and wide and electric.
stop crying. who's crying? i'm crying. swing twice.
these sheets used to be white and dry and you
used to look me in my eyes.

is the sound too loud for you to bear or is it just right, loud enough
to deafen you into white void peace? away from everyone, weightless
in white void peace, you sleep, dripping red and unreal.

and swing thrice. snap. crack the silence.
what is your obsession with the endless black of void?

there is no poetry in this,
in the cold cascade of misery upon misery
upon anger
in teen hearts and
brittle limbs,
eyes red and tired and
sleep forgotten in alleyways and
empty glasses.

sting of the slap and salt from the tears,
our knees grazed and our hearty laughs,
ringing, resonant. the smoke from our
cigarettes, overwhelming, customary,
the spill of a drink and the shake of a head,
we retire; another night, parting,
left to our fears.

something to fill this empty room,
besides the scatters of something started;
a work in progress, never finished.
something besides the
dull smells of fake fragrances and a thousand candles,
spent and past in brazen attempts at aromatherapy.
something to accompany the
ceiling stared at, night after night,
besides the spider and moth that live near the light.
another human, perhaps,
if there were room, at least. another set of thoughts,
besides ones own, weighing heavy in the walls.
a monster under this bed,
give us something real to fear, make me leave,
make me feel, make me scream.
something to fill this empty room,
besides everything still in it. not empty at all,
just worn and torn, bored, full,
empty.

i should have never left home.
i should have never left the roof, the suffocation
and just stayed to die under blankets,
lest i die out in fresh air and spring.
i wish i could look you in the eye
and laugh with you, hold your hand,
let it sweat.
but i would have much rather died at home.
from here there are blinders on my eyes,
my windows and i measure my worth in
how many times you come over to just say *"hey",
(you lose points if you bring someone with you.)
another shadow cast in this already dark room,
i'd much rather die here, selfishly, with you pleading
for me to talk to you. then again, you never have.
i'll rather rot in this room, deluded and empty,
alive for now, but i'm waiting. i'll hold my own hand,
sweat it out, pretend it's yours.
i pretend to know what you'd kiss like, with your hands
against my cheek. i'll never know. (maybe i should leave--)
i should have never left home.
i'll relax here and wait for nothing to happen,
and for you to never kiss me at all.

he is king of the castle
and the devil himself,
all in one.
they worship him anyway.

he shoots up sometimes,
cries when he comes down from the high.
his eyes are void, glassy,
his voice, whimpering, raspy.

they called him god and saviour,
friend, brother and lover.
he is never really alone,
but finds one place where he will be.