your'e learning to live out the reflection you see as if your only audience were the mirror, pointing out your third degree burns just to say you’re not the only one with bones melting in trust issues,
God is wondering why he set flame to things that gave a ****,
then he wonders why you ran up to him without introducing yourself first, screaming, shouting; questioning his existence like we question our own. we found answers underneath our skin like metal, you said we build homes in ourselves but that isnt what I found, not close
you’ve been knocking on god’s door and theres no answer, 7 years later and your heel is tapping against the table so violently driven by sole anxiety, your eyes are drawn straight ahead of you, the whiskey bottle on the table remains out of focus, the liquid nearly gone but it has a presence, its there, its shaking too. its then that you realize home was wet pavement, humid august days and cigarette smoke, maybe it wasn’t so chemical but maybe i was just addicted to sharing one with you. am i not supposed to question the reason behind my principal telling my i'm schizophrenic? was i not supposed to confide in my pen to teach me how to let go? i’m sorry i thought the bible was unnerving, i wasn’t meant for unclenched fists. i’m sorry for taking love for granted, im sorry im so numb now, i wasn’t meant for paralysis, or self diagnosis, i’m memorizing facts about myself because i’ve forgotten who i was. theres a reason why the phrase goes “god awful” and theres a reason i’ve always wanted to match thunder’s harmonies, why i’ve wanted to uproot my soul and plant a new one, why love hit like you slamming down your bedroom door at the thought of me with someone new.
you want to know why the clock stopped ticking? i dropped it. the weight you lost from not eating for a week became a new weight of burden on my shoulders, my headache convulsed itself into a full on, blood-pulsing, body-ache. why could you never pronounce the name of the abandoned building you chose to explore?
i don’t want to speak in metaphorical tones any longer, stop telling me i speak poetry, because tomorrow night when i’ve far too finished my bottle of ***** the creases of my bed sheets will be shouting and whispering your name all at once, something i cant tolerate, my back is too broken from sleeping on the floor too frequently, already. my mind is every burnt out match you've ever used, i want to send postcards to every person who ever thought i had a chance. every contraction of silence, i feel it, every movement of living its overwhelming, i see it, i hear it, there is no end. there's no resemblance to the way i should be living. i’m trying to familiarize myself with the way i used to breathe without the effort, it’s not like that anymore.
you're an alcoholic, living in a ghost town of who you used to be. i'm walking the dusted roads finding recollections of things you used to care about, i still haven't found myself, i question if i ever will. you’ve shattered all the street lamps, you’ve smashed windows of buildings you’ve built, you’ve personally kicked over mailboxes and ran through redlights and you’ve deleted the word hope from your limited vocabulary and i’m sick of mediocre people who think writing is for the weak.
next time you notice my ghost, **** it.
the other night i watched you sit down at an old piano, it refused to play, you began to cry, it reminded me of the way you loved me, it’s too late for me to turn the lights back on, don’t you see i’m dead? i’m navigating my way without eyesight, i’ve stumbled on two too many tables and now my poetry is only available in the form of bashing my head against the walls until they begin to speak.
our love was clockwork. silly, time-ticking abomination of something that fizzled out beneath itself, we said it wouldn’t happen, i pretended like i didn't see it coming, we wouldn’t let it, we did. i’ve spent too much time checking your astrological sign's forecast, predicting you, but how interesting to think i’m not even guaranteed another hour-
do i want to be?