i know this is sadness because
my heart thumps quietly,
listening to my breathing pause
and restart, as i hold in every word

Let's make                                             (and when i go home
obscene pop-culture references              i'll listen to
                                                              ­                     bach
                                                                ­  on my radio)

last night
i drowned myself
in music.
it was a long, slow
death,

there was
no pain; for a few
long moments
you hardly existed at all

And you know I'm not sure if it hurts because I know you never even wanted a friendship like you told me and like the sham we kept up for so long, or because I believed you  in the first place. Either way, it was idiocy that kept me coming back to you though I knew when you told me you cared it was a lie. Or maybe I was paranoid. That's what I called myself. Paranoid. But this gut feeling of mine, the one that tells me it hurts somewhere inside where broken bones aren't my problem, it knows that paranoid was just another way of saying "This guy is going to **** you inside. Look what he's doing right now. How could this end?" Silly me, I trusted you. People never change. I never believed that 'till now but hey, I guess I could only stay naive for so long. I guess I have you to thank for that.

I am not
myself, tonight.
I've just had
a conversation with you
that I won't remember,
not tomorrow, anyways

please forgive me,
I've been slowly extracting
myself from your life.

You don't need me, you see
and I'm tired
of waiting for you
to toss me away

maybe I said goodbye,
and maybe I told you "I hate you"
or "I love you"

but I won't remember,
not tomorrow.

The day your world bled there was no blood. There were no tears. The clouds gorged themselves on sky but remained white and empty. (There was no rain. There never was any rain.) The earth you lived on faded to the cold grey of old black and white photographs but nobody screamed. Was your voice caged by self-loathing, or pity? It wasn’t ignorance. I still remember the day you said you missed the color red. Where was the violence? Did you bury it with your fear or your innocence? Because there’s nothing as unpoetic as an open wound. It seems that’s how you’re heading to live your whole **** life; open and weeping and dying without color.  (And I?  I saw a ray of hope and decided to give up on you after all.)

I’m interested in the way your mind is locked. I see no chain. There are no keys. Your simple steadfast determination to be deaf and blind is holding the door shut in its hands. It is never off-guard. Your mind-beast is strange. It doesn't have eyelids. Nor lips or a tongue. It doesn’t breathe or have heartbeat. [It is made of wood. Deep roots like veins bind it where it stands. It’s grown into the door. It is the door. The beast is the door and it refuses to open. The beast is the door and it’s killing your mind; one dead thought one dead dream at a time.]