I'm writing this because
I'll be gone in about two seconds.
I've decided I've had enough:
It was too much
or maybe too little.

I'm prepared to hang myself with the umbilical cord
of my self-hatred;
it was a diary entry, I think.
Oh, I'm dead anyway.

I am dead
has such a nice wring to it, doesn't it?
Feel like a ***** old dishrag,
used up and withered.
I wonder who will clean up my act.

I will lie in
a playful position,
akin to the Mannerists
or Fuseli
and the Renaissance men would look at me
like I'm crazy
for contorting smiles and stares
in a happy niche of browning lungs.

The punchline always ends with
your head in an oven.
I'd imagine it'd explode,
but it was not so.
It's sad to know he didn't love you,
but hey, we got poetry out of it, you know.
How is he?
Did you get your revenge?

You were beautiful,
but I was decades late.

The Wolf in the Woods Design Center
Stood in a deserted commercial street.

He told me he would meet me there,
But he didn't.

This is just to say,
I am sorry for lying.
I know you were expecting me to tell the truth
About falling in love with you but
I didn't fall

Or scrape my skin loose,
Blood smearing on the unforgiving pavement.
Curdling, browning, settling
On the pavement.

I am sorry for skinning my knee.
I know you wanted me
To walk you to the park
But I can't, my knee is dying.

I am sorry for not kissing your cheek
With my dry, chapped lips;
I am sorry you don't notice me falling
And flaking
Like dandruff on the shoulders of a nervous
Office intern.

I am sorry for not being sad when you left,
And for not noticing the tear on your face
Like crimson
Reflecting the lack of a glint in my eye.

Is there anything I can do
to make you love me?

I ache only for human touch against my skin.

I feel like my desires are a sin
against humanity,
and the way your hands would move across mine is the only thing that's sacred

I am filled with hatred.
You don't know how long I've waited
for this moment, beneath
the pale white light.




Words riddled with meaning.