I spent days waiting for a
creative surge.
Now i'm stuck in wordless purgatory.
I have 27 mosquito bites on my feet.
All going to scar.
That makes for 31 scars between the two,
but who is counting?
I told her I wasn't a good person.
I don't know if she believed in me or ignorance.
I love her but curious killed the cat,
and murdered me with a 12 gauge shotgun.
I can't decide if she notices the new patterns
written in my skin or
politely doesn't ask.
I'm pretty sure I'm not depressed.
I don't see my scars as overly cliched battle
wounds from myself.
They are the mark of intrigue.
One time, in a letter, she told me she kissed them,
as if I didn't notice.
I couldn't find the romance in the gesture, only
embarrassment.
We are both aware, please just ask, and I will
gladly tell you what I did to get them.
Because I'm not a good person.

I am uninspired and lazy.
too jeered to fall in love.
too bored for ***.

Blatantly tainted by privilege.
It isn’t as if I’ve become coated
in self served depression but
emotionally exhausted from experience.

I am modern romanticism
disguised by femme fatal.

Everything is ****.
Creative death by consumer.
Fall in love with me.

I never seem to let myself stay happy for long.  
But in this moment, wrapped in a sweater
that has been dunked in the thick smell of
charred logs,
apple cider,
and,
whiskey
I feel my feet slip off the ground
and into elation.

It is in these moments late at night that I evaluate your caress,
the way your hands shape my body
and how
your lips criticize my secrets,
in what was meant to be acceptance.

I lay drowning in my own misunderstood falsified memories.
Trying to recall the wake of your voice
only to find a week hum.

How is it that I feel haunted by you when you
are still
                                            here.

It is in these moments that I attempt to make myself a martyr
when in fact,
I already tied your noose.

People write poems about loss
How it rips them apart,
and leaves them restless.

Losing you was the best thing
that could happen to me.

Repugnant charm.

Each night alone I become lost
I drown in a sea of blankets
and a small mattress that seems
far too big.

I toss and I turn
I flip the pillow over
I pull more blankets on
I push folded laundry off

However much I try
I cannot seem to replicated
how the bed feels filled with you.