cold lights and hard eyes of post modern romance, gently finding sunday sins
  leaving
tannic spit mornings post the every-day-weekend.

you, always -
cradling sadness as the last honest god
crafting fictions in your bedroom you -

feed me earl grey tremors at 12pm, light leaking,
something pretty something quiet,
i think of still hours, departure words

My bed is no longer made up in the morning, instead I leave it rumpled and destroyed from the nightmares that visited me
My clothes are no longer folded neatly in the cupboard, instead they lay in the laundry basket which stands un-emptied for the third week running
My books are no longer standing proudly on the bookshelf, instead they are left on the floor with the corners folded and the spines broken
My body may not show any signs of illness but the symptoms of my sadness lay in plain sight

my head hits mahogany while i wait
but when my screen radiates light
and the beams bounce off
all of my off white walls
you illuminate my world

I wonder how many times you have climbed into a tub and thought,
"Wow maybe I could drown in hopes of escaping my life."
I dont know how many of you have thought that but let's just say a few.
One: I step into the tub with my left foot and the water is immensely warm.
Downing pills couldn't be that bad right now.
Maybe I could grab the bottle without anybody noticing.
I wonder if I could make my own concoction of medicine would suffice.
Concoction is a funny word.
Two: I step in with my right foot and everything is tingling from the heat.
If I charge my phone from the plug over there by the sink,
Could I electrocute myself?
I wonder how bad electrocution hurts.
Deep fried food would be nice right now.
Three: I sink into the tub and pull my knees to my chest.
if I lay back now and fight myself from breathing,
Could I do it?
I wonder how long it takes somebody to drown themselves in a tub while fighting their instinct to survive.
I could adapt and grow gills.
Four: I lay back into my tub and watch the water rise.
The water is warm and my body is heavy.
I can't **** myself because my headstone will be something sad,
My funeral will play music I'll hate listening to as a ghost,
People I don't even know will show up.
What if my ex shows up?
Five: I sink lower into the water until I can no longer hear clearly and it tickles the side of my eyes.
What's the point in breathing.
Breathing is so weird.
Why do I have to maintain a body that's going to die anyways?
I wonder what dying feels like.
Six: I've been in here for an hour. Maybe I should get out.
This water has turned mildly lukewarm.
I'd like to stay but I'm getting kinda cold and I like the warmth.
Could I just empty half and add more hot water?
I am sitting in a pool of my own dirt.
Great.
Seven: I'm climbing out while simultaneously pulling the stopper.
Theres so many different ways to say that you or somebody is dying;
Kick the bucket.
Pull the plug.
One foot in the grave.
Bite the dust.
Croak.
Some of them are kinda funny.
Eight: Realizing that I love baths but hate the thoughts that come with the quiet bathroom.
I'm exhausted.
The mental kind of exhausted.
Can I stop now?
Can I just lay down and close my eyes?
My anxiety is overworking me.
Nine: I open my door with a stiff towel and a cold room.
I love the quiet but the quiet kills.
I love my mind yet the way it works is poisonous to me.
Ten: Nothing.
Sitting.
Alone.
In my empty bedroom.

You smoked your throat gone.

I'll sit in bed opening and closing my Opinel No. 8 and stare at an unread compilation of a then-alive poet's correspondence with a then-and-still-dead poet and wonder at the cover art, a fishing-line-thin threaded rope that could well be tied in a slipknot. Tendrils that look like loose straw scattered thirty different ways.

He said You can't **** your life away and there are many ways to do that. I'm stuck inside a small bedroom dreaming or hallucinating an open space, streams flowing from nowhere near and flat space so full of sky it is sin to call it empty. The world can be hot and fast;  I am bad at resting. I don't sleep well. I can float a river and not once hear it moving.

You drank and dissected your drinking so it could masquerade as something under your control. We all are guilty of this at some point. In some way or another. I am lucky to sit in my bedroom and write that the next two years of my life have well been mapped. I do not pout, there is no malice here. My head is close, fastened between my small shoulders. I share no heart with Yesenin.

You can't **** your life away he said he thought. These things change. *But you can!

in my room
a sunday afternoon on the island of a burgundyacidparadise dream
the pinch and push of human faces, cartoons shrinking rainbow triangles
a glance to the drawer - melting, melting(is it a bear or an eagle?)
the music echoes in a head room full of autumn sun
clifford brown cutting the light and springing joy
books floating, books falling, books fluttering fractal butterflies
and the painting flows together and becomes one
lanterns shooting dragonfly dots above the piano
hot, hot, the fan exists and fades, roars (did i speak just now?)
chemical reaction inside a chemical reaction
trip along with the music let it guide
and shake it out when it goes dark
drip into the wall ripples (is there a storm? or is it the fan?
which direction is the door? and where is the incense blowing?)
take it fagen, take it becker
time out of mind indeed
handprint, faceprint, dust in a yellow tint
don’t want me to leave that’s fine by me
lie down and let it take me where it wants to go
lyin tyga in my head
push me down upon my bed
cancel out the need for time
and make my visions warm
sublime as a sunflower
a spiral leaf of hummingcomb
water, water, fizz, fizz
take me where the sunset is
(how did i get outside)no noise
getting calmer but just as beautiful
in my room

Imagine how many people
Have fallen temporarily in love with you
On the train
On the street
In the car
In your room
Or after you'd fallen in love with them.