Holes in your heart
are meant for blood,
the blood that feeds,
but also the blood that bleeds,
and it'll keep pulsing
even if it all bleeds out.
It's your burden to see that it's done,
Oh,
but this is a game that can't be won.
No,
the map is a textile
made of the guts of moths that eat textiles,
and it unfolds as quickly as it unravels,
you only get glimpses to guide your travels,
and the light you hold to show your steps
will blow out when the wind picks up,
and it will.
Hopefully you will know,
the hands of your mother,
but the blood of the ancestors
is yours- do what you will with that,
but understand it's seriousness.
We are born crying,
and cry whenever another dies,
and our tears are salty
like the ocean that bore the first life-
And it goes on like this.
Today will be hard,
again,
even if you just sit alone with your thoughts,
but if you can, try,
because you have one shot at this,
and they aren't coming to save you.
You might be able to do it on your own-
your beating heart, still-
but no one's coming to save you.
No one's coming to save you,
Save your self!

Watch me now, I won't do this gracefully.
I'll prove that screaming in anger
is crying in pain.
I will show in every spray of
spit that passes my broken teeth
that tears are not all that drip down my face.
And the red in my face
is the ember that will char the pines for miles,
and if it burns down this house, so be it-
no accident that the fireplace will be what's left,
the hearth of this home will never be truer.
But it is those ashes that I'm grasping at;
when they are cold they will explain
what my heart knew
before the blood boiled over;
that there was nothing to save.
I swear the gods left my body then-
there was nothing to save.

If you could only imagine
what you do not want to see,
there would be enough light for you
to see it.
Enough light, as you turn to it,
from your glowing face,
shift your weight a little bit
to take the first step,
take a deep breathe
stumble, fall,
but rise.
Your eyes
guide you
through.
You will see it,
and when you do,
there will be no words to express,
no syllables could ever sound out-
that the stars love you no less,
that you're not so bad, how you turned out-
but as close as they come,
I have heard once as true:
You are your love, loving through you.

Sunder splinters
caught under the nail
of the moment that
time spirals split in twain.
The merging of our timelines,
in vain.

In my dreams,
nights like these,
I always end up lost,
and I've given up on
whatever I was wandering for,
I just want to go home.
These days,
I spend all day at home,
wishing I had something to wander for.
Makes me wonder
if I'm a creature of beauty
in a life of pain,
or a creature of pain
in a life of beauty.
All I'm sure of is that,
serenity or fulfillment,
it's eluding.
Either way,
I'm in a row boat with no oars,
in the middle of the ocean,
and the horizon is my long-lost dream,
and my boat is the chair I
spend my waking life in,
and I am starving and sun burnt.
     -or-
I am my afflictive lack of dopamine
in the face of my most testing times,
like the challenge of
when I will put the bed sheets that have come off
back on the bed, or
whether I will dream a better dream tonight.
I hope it's vivid,
and prophetic
of a better tomorrow.

We **** to dissect.
To describe our utter despair over
the intrinsic lethality of
life, we take apart our minds
and separate the soul from the body
to see each, spread flat and smooth,
for the promise it is not.
We torture out of each other
a made up confession
that we have no tears behind our eyes over this
with a glance,
and squeeze the blood out of our fists
trying to hold composure when telling
our loved ones
"I love you",
but meaning
"Don't go. Ever."
And still we **** to dissect,
tipping back the bottle of complacency
to become stupid enough to believe
we are getting younger;
that time isn't tearing us apart
like we are
tearing ourselves apart
looking for a way out
inside our way into
life, our only life,
that is to say we **** to dissect
to grasp at what's killing us,
which is ourselves,
and everything,
and nothing at all...
And so the affliction of the gift of life
is it's termination,
the beginning designates  the end,
and the birth was not asked for,
the death unavoidable.
The time in between
is desperate,
and pure,
and must be held close.

I'm drowning, and you tell me
to drink the sea.
I'm burning, and you ask me
to rise to the heavens.
I'm falling, and you tell me
to fly and be free.
I'm suicidal, and you ask me
to shave.