Perhaps it was my naïveté, hungry
to taste you, to bury itself deep
inside your skin, anticipated finding
home I never had before. But,

once I caught you on my tongue,
it was a car crash of flesh against
unready flesh. You tasted
of commissary slop, had the warmth
of iron prison bars.

You can love the art,
but not the artist
and she says she is fond of
everything I write. She is,
perhaps, even my biggest fan.
But what she really means is:
“Tell me again how I’m beautiful
in ways the other boys won’t.
Tell me again how you’ll be here,
no matter how much I hurt you.”

Unrequited love is the best muse, right?
If I can’t be what she wants,
at least an extension of me can.
Some days, though, I trample through gardens
hunting dandelions with heavy breaths
wishing for nothing to say.

With dreams of shaking God's hand
and strolling through paradise,
many are tempted to paths of divinity.
Reincarnation, though— not a creator—
lures me to dalliances with holiness

But not my rebirth.
Yours.

How I pray your death returns you
as a Blue Morpho butterfly for I
also dabble in insect collecting.
Finally, I could subdue you,
with pins restrain and mount you
like a trophy in my bedroom.

May my faith make you mine.

A cold pain sits heavy on my chest and off in the distance, I hear something like the like the howling of far-off wolves seeking to devour me. Even if it were a horde of rabid monsters, frothing at the mouth with a hunger for my body, I wouldn’t bother raising my arms in defense. In my chest is a hole the shape of your silhouette, the frayed edges of flesh dancing in the wind rushing through. For these tears, too I, would like to blame this wind, stirring up debris and stinging my eyes. But when I offered to share my heart with you, you ripped out what you deemed your portion and left me scraps, left me empty and alone. When we so often talked of running away, I thought it would be us together instead of just you from a love you faked. And now where am I to go without a partner along this path and only tatters of heart?

I still read through your old letters and songs like postcards of sights I’ve seen along this love, a chronicle of happiness I could visit like a temple. But unlike most travelers, I can’t return to those sights I yearn to see again. My temple has crumbled. How do I begin to sift through the pieces? What am I even looking for?

What little remains of my heart is unable to do its job. And so, this blood in my veins sits stagnant, fermenting into alcohol—a bitter cocktail of sadness, self-pity, anger, and traces of regret. Put my blood on tap and get drunk on my mistakes—one final gift I put on your altar. Although my temple has crumbled, I vowed to be a disciple until death. You were my everything and you took it all away.

Where are those hungry wolves? I open my arms. Dinner is served.

There is a difference between enjoying daylight
and simply being thankful it’s not dark.
But all too soon, the sky has feasted on the sun
and it feels as though its dinner came early.
How did the night creep up like this?
And now, even the shallowest darkness
feels like the deepest black hole;
too soon there is only darkness,
an oppressive emptiness,
a silence that sounds like a eulogy.

I’m tired.
I am so very tired.
Not from a lack of sleep
or due to a grueling exercise regimen.
I am collapsing under this armor.
My shield has grown too heavy for these arms.
I have swung this sword one too many times;
and as I weaken, my demons seem to get stronger.
There is scant energy left to shoulder
the weight of things my mind refuses to carry.

I am become a beehive.
The buzzing, so all consuming,
it bullies rational thoughts into silence.
I am trembling with movement under my skin,
the bees frantically crawling into all my empty space,
restless and eager to break free.
There is nothing but static.
I’m going to lose to such a small thing.
I’m going to break; I’m going to die.
I’m going to crack
open, I’m going to spill gooey-sticky out of my myself.
And it will not be sweet.
My honeycomb will be worthless,
nothing but a burdensome mess.

The headboard bangs
against the wall in a rhythm syncopated
to floorboards creaking, a backbeat
driving her passionate screams
of jubilee
of raw ecstasy
of primal pleasures.
She’s a one woman gospel choir
praising god more than I've ever heard in church.
Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!
She is filled, but not with Holy Spirit.
Foundations are being tested as knick-knacks
fall off the dresser, a crucifix
crashes to the floor
like it’s the second coming-
at this rate it might even be the third-
and now she speaks in tongues.

And I’m breaking a sweat, mouth parched

but I don’t dare go get a glass of water.
No, I just lay here, listening fervently
as the couple in the apartment next door
**** away into the apocalypse,
too ashamed of my loneliness
to even *******

Ram your hand down my throat like you’re stuffing a turkey (I am one, after all) and rip out my vocal cords. Tie them to some wood and play it like a guitar. Even out of tune, the music will spell out all the words of the emotions I never told you how I felt. There really is love in here, I swear; it’s just trapped under some fallen debris. Pound me in the head and knock some sense into me while trying to knock the love out of me. Maybe you’ll be able to see it sticking to the brain-matter flowing from my fractured skull (you always hit harder than you should). Listen, I deeply apologize for being your disappointment; I’m so ashamed that I let you down. I guess I ended up being the lover my mother raised me not to be. Here, to make it up and show some form of affection, I’ll gladly rip out my heart and put it in your hand. But you should probably wrap it in rice and seaweed and eat it like sushi. A meal is more filling than my love.
Just be aware of the risks that arise from consuming raw meat.