don't tell me **** about
being okay.
that's not what i'm here for.
complacement is no more satisfying
than the empty -ness
and less interesting that loneliness;
thought it might be cheaper.

i can't expose these nerves in person.
even alcohol isn't enough to allow
myself to touch,
barely enough to talk.
i could blame it on not finding the
right person (and that probably is the
actual reason). but i am far more
likely to blame myself, or my surround-
ings. or

i would love to say
"this has to stop" but it doesn't have to.
and i believe it drains me of the drive,
and steals the better part of my breath
away.
i'm ready to end a paragraph, ending a
chapter. to enter a new home to make me
a bit more clear-headed, if not necessarily
more.


i get into a daze, almost convincing
me that i'm in love. but with who?
no face touches my memory, it's just
an anxious, empty wish. that there could b
e someone worth wanting.

unrequited love is my best relationship,

one-sided lie to myself, easy enough
to swallow whole. hope.