If Love is the better half
then I am gilded frame
lonely for stolen masterpiece.

I sought Home in wrong places.
It hides under covers
but these sheets are porcelain
and I am cold to the touch.

My roots are my rocks and suddenly
your name is carved in the bark
of my family tree

If Love is the better half
I am nothing without Yang.

This restless and irritating
little tick in my skin
won't leave me alone.
I scratch and I pick
and I peel away
my flesh, digging
away the rotten.
My words are matted
cat hair and
malignant growths, needing
to be cut off and out.
I reek of apathy
and whiskey
and lies
and lost sleep
and I feel
as if I am
caught in a swirling
whirlpool of
the kind of loneliness
that consumes men whole.

This has to end.