They ask me if I still love you.

I blush, grin and say;

of course.

Why?

Because your eyes are of the most utter ocean blue,

but other days they're the currents of the stormy grey sea.

I see a current of salty water, deep, once blue, but now a faded grey.

I see a bundle of darkened grey clouds in the distance,

and the thunder rumbles from your irises,

and I hear it pound in the back of my mind.

I wonder if you knew.

I see a spark of lightening flash, only once in a while,

while you look at her.

My throat corrodes with bile.


She says she sees green demons lurking in the depth of my own ocean currents,

and I shrug.

What am I supposed to say?

I know you think about her.

Night and day.


The hardest part,

is a generic, old saying.

If you love them,

you let them go.

If they love you enough to stay,

or to come back,

you never let go.





But you haven't come back.

You picked me off of the damped earth,

dusted leaves and years of dust away,

sealed my cracks with kisses and tape of woven eyelashes.



I was afraid,

but I wanted to love you too.

So I said I would love you,

no, i promised.


That I would love you if you promised me this --

that you would never, ever leave.




your fingers were crossed.

It's 70 degrees in the middle of December.

I lie alone.

I listen to my fan drone,

I think of us.


I used to believe

it was rather indubitably meant to be.

I used to believe you would always be there,

here.

I used to believe there would never be a time,

I would never see a time when you would be through.

When you would give up.


I let you in,

you let me keep you in my own private aluminum tin.

I kept you and I loved you.


I think now,

I think of your ocean eyes,

I hear the thunder crack in the crevice of my mind,

I feel the green demons flash from eye to eye in my own oceans,

I can do nothing but sigh.



Like the heat of December,

we were flaming.

We were 70 degrees,

We were 80 degrees.



I hate you like I hate the heat of December.

In this 70 degree weather, I think of you,

I think of her.


Because I loved you, I made you go.

At a minute till three,

that's when the demons come for me.

They come in all shapes and forms,

forked tongues and chariots of rotting thorns.



They come to my makeshift stand of vials,

but tonight they look displeased.

"Needs more, needs more, needs more,"

they glare with hunger.

"What does it need?"

I'm beginning to sweat desperately.

One with a rotted forked tongue and acid eyes stares at me,

waves a skeletal hand and they merely leave.



The next batch I bring,

it glows a brighter, toxic green.

They come hungry, slithering and crawling.

They ask me what's in it, forked tongues and skeleton fingers sprawling.



I grin and say,

scorn of a grandfather,

shame of a grandmother,

dying pride of a father,

and the lingering hope of a ***** mother.



They buy me out,

one even whispers,

"How stout,"

and they lick the green out of the vials,

all  clean.



But that's alright,

this is what I wanted.

But sit tight,

even though this story is over;

the next one begins in brighter, maybe even perfect

fields of red clover.

Listen to me.


Don't fall for the boy with curly brown hair.

Don't fall for the boy who treats you with a blanket of clouds,

and when he sees you he floats into the open air.

Don't fall for the boy with utter oceans in his eyes,

Don't fall for him when he writes you songs.

Don't fall to fix him when you see the sad grey clouds in his ocean eyes,

Don't fall for him when he sings you his songs.



Listen to me,

take my advice.

Don't you dare fall for the curly headed boy with ocean blue eyes.

There are times,
too far many,
the spaces between them are fading,
becoming slivers of slight reassurance.

But there are times,
when I no longer feel like a person,
no longer feel human,
cold to the touch and lifeless.

There are times when I fade into the background,
far too many,
watch the people pass by.
Sometimes, I muster the courage,
let my fingertips ghost along the skin of their arms.
Watch the bumps form, fear lingers in my eyes.

Most don't turn,
they're used to us.
They don't leave a glance, don't turn,
don't face us.
It's disgust, but also fear.
They don't want to become like us,
hollow, spaced and cold to the touch.
They like warm, soft skin, glowing white teethed smiles
and lively eyes.

But, there are some, who turn around and leave a lingering glance.
Most don't see us, let their eyes leave us before they're focused.
They fear us, they're young, they don't understand.
Most of us feel twinges of guilt when they're startled,
turn on us wide eyed with panic swarming in their eyes like hornets.

The others, they're different.
There's a few, the ones who take the time out of their day,
smell the roses and are grateful for the small things.
Never take advantage, always gentle, kindred souls.

They don't flinch when they feel cold grate against their warm skin,
don't flinch when they meet the putrid hollow of our gaze.
Don't run away, don't break out into a cold sweat.
Most smile, a warm, friendly grin with paint white smiles.


I used to believe he was one of them,
would guide me from the dark of the background
into the light and introduce me to life.

Her cigarette laced breath,

her promises that she'd quit,

broken,

I remember it clearly.

Hair bleached with the roots brown,

fried,

I remember it clearly.

Green of her eyes murked with swampy brown,

Surrounded by eyeshadow and poorly drawn eyeliner,

Surrounded by crows feet and clogged pores,

I remember them clearly.

Barbie nose,

Bridge lithe,

sharp,

I remember it clearly.

Everything about her was frail.

Wrists of a 9 year old,

bones of a 70 year old,

her body wasn't her age.

I remember.


I remember,

Her crooked back,

Stooped with age and baddened posture,

I remember it clearly.

Her rotten teeth,

Her eating disorder,

What did you eat today?

It was a habit to ask

She doesn't think I remember,

But,

I remember.

I remember my mother.

You left me.

but I remember.

I fell for you,

yearned for you,

trusted you.

Hell, I think I might've even loved you.


But you let me fall,

and believe me, I miss your calls,

but I think I might miss you, too.

Atleast I think I do?

Or maybe, hopefully, it's just the idea of you?

Yeah, I think that's what made me love you,

us.



But, I think, maybe, just maybe,

I still love you.

There were times when you
begged
me to tell,
let you unravel the cord wrapped
so tightly wound around
lies, secrets, ghosted and deadened emotions.

You weren't surprised when
the cobwebs latched in my throat,
eight legged creatures in the bend of my spine
scattered.

You didn't turn around
from the ghastly sight,
nor shield your eyes.

You grabbed a broom,
grabbed a shoe.
Gathered away the webs,
swept in a pile.
Murdered the creatures,
washed the evidence,
cleaned smooth.

You grabbed a chair,
no, grabbed two.
One for me, another for
my feet.

You insisted
so incessantly.
I agreed.

You unraveled the thread,
started at my head.
Through my frontal lobe,
straightened my two crooked front teeth,
loosened my spinal cord,
kissed my scarred thighs,
lingered on my faded striped forearm,
held me close.

You gained the keys
to each and every lock.
Heard every story,
kissed every scar.

It was a sad day
when you threw the keys.
Into the black river,
threw it all away,
and instead caught her.

You told me once,
that you were afraid
of not one,
but entirely too many things.

But you said to me,
something I could relate.

You were afraid of withering old,
growing bitter at such a young age.


I drew the tiniest of white lies,
slipped through the cracks of my two crooked front teeth,
and said I agreed.

But dear,
I've become bitter,
too long ago to remember.

In the future,
I'll let you know,
make you remember back to that moment.

You were the one that made me withered and bitter.

He says he knows me better than he knows himself,
knows every key to every hidden lock, every crevice and crawl space, every hidden gem,
all hidden in the nook of my mind.

He says he knows,
I know.

From every inch of my mind,
to my body,
to the very pit of my sewed and bandaged heart,
he knows.

too much.

He's the little white lie tucked away in the corner of your cheek,

in the crevice of your teeth.

He's the truth in the biggest lie you keep tucked away,

hidden underneath your pillow at night when the bare limbs of the trees sway.


He's yellow--

the sun in the rain,

during midday.


He's the one that is there to impress,

the one that said he loved you,

and left.

When you get down to it,
when you dig the deepest,
into the pit of the actual abyss,
you’ll see.

You’ll see lies,
white,
large,
various pieces of hearts,
shreds of humanity clinging to the hollow branches of bare limbs.

You’ll see soulless bodies, eyes glassy and skin rotten
numb to this poison radioactive air.

You get down to the pit, the actual abyss,
you’ll see where you left me.

You’ll see the little white lies, stuck in my paper calloused skin like push pins.
You’ll see the plastic encasing of large lies stuck in the back of my rotten mouth,
expect a pain stricken, desperate face.
Find a solemn, content one, knowing I had died there
in this pit, the actual abyss,
rather than with you, clouded with lies, want and the need that I can’t fulfill for you.