It’s that time again.
It’s 2am again.
It’s time to look to the right side of my bed and feel sad.
It’s time to wonder why it’s still empty.
It’s time for me to make a list of why it is empty.
It’s time for me to be ******* myself.
It’s time for me to wonder where I went wrong.
It’s time for me to make a list of all my mistakes.
It’s time to feel sorry for myself.
It’s time for me to break my own heart.
Again.
It’s time for me to play over what men have said to me in the past.
It’s time for my old tinder messages to haunt me.
“Unless I can eat that *** and ***** from the back before marriage Christian girls aren’t as fun.”
“Would you be interested in a nice thick 8 inch ****?”
“I’m looking for a more physically intimate relationship.”
It’s time for me to remind myself the reason why my bed is empty.
Men want the one thing that I can’t give them,
And without my body I am nothing to them.
All I am is what’s between my legs and what’s under my shirt.
And with my legs crossed and my top on,
what could I possibly offer them?
It’s time for me remember that while my choice maybe the right choice,
It’s also the lonely choice.
It’s time for me to remember that even though it feels like it’s my fault,
It’s not.
It’s time for me to daydream until I fall asleep.
Again.

It feels like I won't be able to love again
I don't know if I am just bored at the thought of it
The touching does not excite me
I am bitter at the thought
The affection and smiles seem synthetic
Because they always have been before
Where do we go to find love again
The answer is that no one knows

I opened a **** bank,
      but I'm the only
one depositing in..

Any one got a wet wipe
                

                   Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaagss……..

I never withdrawing that deposit...

Angular relapse.

Like a tongue on a hot pipe.
Gets blistered.
Boils in the star in the sky.
And pops.
Pus.
Picking up even the stongest bones crunching.
The whimper.
The moonlight.
The **** in the head that fries.
Pretend to even act.
Like the little voice beating between the ears.
Meaning nothing and everything.
For everyone and Nobody.
But stills crawls.
Back into an acidic center.
Home that could never be home
And flushed into. . . What be formed into silent ends.


Garrett Johnson.

****, here I am again

suffused by incoming sunlight floods,
blonde tresses decorative,
and a
refrigerator light dim surprising,
******* a future fest,
when in search of ordinary milk and coffee

cherries, grapes, watermelon,
cole slaw, caramelized walnuts,
Spanish Marcona almonds,
chicken defrosting, and wine,
a pink rose,
blushing like me,
at the amplitude of love and blessings
I have uncovered,
and that covers me,
while she sleeps,
I sip first coffee and
her love

and more than suffused,
I am effused,
unable to contain all this,
what I am feeling,
like my water broken,
pouring tears
and I wonder who is
this idiot

that forgets to say
thank you
for what he
has been given,
and who in return
can merely offer up
a pauvre writ,
a love poem,
of salt and sweet

***** laundry
under aching feet
at 2am
with seven
eight
twelve
unread messages
breaking the silence

empty stomach
but clean teeth
and so many empty pages
in notebooks
scattered in between
used tea bags
and dry rose petals

i add my socks to the mess
and close my eyes
trying to remember
what breathing feels like