i know i already wrote two poems tonight,
but i just remembered how
last night at 2am we were sharing a tiny blanket
and when i started to slightly shiver or shift,
you tucked the whole blanket around me
(five minutes later I heard your teeth chatter)

With shaken hands,
she reaches up with a wand in defeat.
Performing magic on herself,
Artifically covering what she wants to hide.

The blemishes, the mistakes
The hurt, she has felt.
The tear stains, quite possibly.
The facade does not mirror the interior.

The mascaras flakes off her lashes,
When she places more than she should.
But her hands shake too much, to stop.
All of it, she wanted to cover.

She hears the voices,
Telling her to stop, telling her to go on.
She does not hear them,
The pounding pain in her heart silences them all.

She continues, then it gets quiet.
But she still carries on.
Shattered breath, love that had left.
The tears drag the culprit down her cheeks.

She drops the wand,
All is gone.
But pain shall always prosper,
It shall always live on.

Through the quiet, yet labored breaths
A voice has returned,
The same voice has returned.
Asking her why she hides what she is.

She says,
You are the reason to start.
And you are the reason to stop.
What shall I do then?

You tell me yes,
then it changes to no.
Acceptance, than denial.
Back and forth again,
Swaying like a swing.

Whether up or down,
I am always left.
With this pain,
So how must I cope?

Split response ring through her ears,
Telling what to do.
Telling her things she does not want to hear.
So she hides, with hatred pouring down her face.

I live in a world,
That hates me. But loves me.
I am who I am by this world.
You are my world.

When it was late, and quiet,
And we'd lie in bed in silence
Staring up at the ceiling or
at the shadows on the wall,
Just when I'd think we'd
run out of things to say,
Just when I'd let myself start to drift
toward the peacefulness of unconsciousness,
You'd sigh deeply and plunge head-first
into an existential rant
worthy more of Kafka or Camus
than a half-asleep me.
Me, worried about the absurdity of gas prices,
not the absurdity of life.
And I'd roll my eyes when you'd ask me questions
I'd never even entertained, let alone have the answers to.
And you'd wonder if you'd ever find a meaning,
or a purpose.
And I'd tell you not to worry; to live more in the moment
If there is meaning, you'll find it
If not, you'll define it.
And you'd kiss me gently on the forehead,
And I'd roll over and fall asleep,
But I suspect you'd lay awake for hours after,
Never truly satisfied with the answers I, or anyone else
could ever seem to give you.

And I wonder now sometimes,
If you lie in bed next to someone new,
And ask her the same questions you used to ask me.
Maybe she has better answers.
Maybe she makes you forget about your questions.
Maybe you still lie awake at night,
wondering if you'll ever find what it is you're looking for.

And I still don't have the answers,
And I still don't understand all the questions,
But sometimes I lie awake at night,
Staring up at the ceiling or
at the shadows on the wall,
And I wonder if I'll ever find a meaning
or a purpose.
And I find I'm never truly satisfied with the answers
anyone can ever seem to give me.

sext : *let me write a poem
on the insides of your thighs..
with my tongue

This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.

This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.

This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.

This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.

This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”

It's Saturday
And I feel lonely
I drink some coffee
And I feel lonely
I do the laundry
And I feel lonely
I ride my bike
And I feel lonely
I buy some groceries
And I feel lonely
I watch TV
And I feel lonely
I smoke a pack
And I feel lonely
I down a bottle
And I feel lonely
I think of you
And I feel lonely
I call you up
And I feel lonely
The doorbell rings
And I feel lonely

I see you
You come in
I have you
You leave

And I feel nothing

They say when you lose a limb,
sometimes you can still feel it
even after it's gone
Maybe that's why I still feel your arm
wrapped around my waist