__

believe me
i know my tears—
too wet,
 too sudden

my eyes a washing line
of memories, regrets
hung me up
  to dry

searching for a loan
of love like a borrowed
heart pinned to a shirt

to find the wear and tear
of time; every memory
is washed,
 wrung out in silence
until it dripped from my eyes—

finally, oh finally,
  this man has found
the time to cry.

Tending fruit of what we leave behind,
roots break walls we build.
Hope grows heavy,
then it falls—
like Jericho.

Once there was glory,
then the world swallowed it whole.
I am not cursed,
but every apple I’ve bitten
tastes of the core.

Where there is money,
there is love—
and the root of all evil,
sweet poison.

I watch the lives of others,
dreams they wear like fine garments.
We chase illusions,
so gladly,
so foolishly—
to end up full on nothing.

Trust me, and know me whole:
I’ve floated on white lines,
pretending innocence
with powdered breath.

Say goodbye too many times,
and I won’t answer the last one.
This is my sonnet—
the count of the fallen man.
All men have fallen.

And when the call reaches your heart,
what cost does love demand?
It speaks in voices tender, cruel—
the sound of devotion
from a wicked heart.

All men have fallen.
All men have fallen.

Much worse than me are all the prior versions of myself,
all of them still stumbling through the riddle of identity.
Fate, destiny— both play me like a long lonely chord,
strumming my heartstring, a song both bitter & sweet;
truly the taste of a man’s casual defeat.

See if survival is a means to meet an end, then I’ve met
enough ends to know, each greeting feels like a farewell,
as each rise a false high that drags me lower still. And in
this place where I stand, this ground I call my own, are
the days life slowly feels like hell.

Much worse than me are the questions I can’t outrun:
do I hate myself, or do I hate the eyes that all watch me
through everyone else? “Oh, he sits on his ***, or he’s
someone just to chase ***,” they say— but truth is, I am
more of an *** to myself. Kicking myself for not doing
enough, and beating myself down for doing too much.

Much worse than me is the interference that shapes
me, this half-formed man that I keep trying to correct.
Incomplete, unfinished, still searching— as if figuring
it all out is not my burden alone, but it's the long road
of every man, he must walk.

all the women
i ever loved,
brought me the kind of love,
i carried within.

to all the women
i ever loved,
loving you still—
is that my sin?

to all the women
i ever loved,
did you ever love me back,
the way i have been?

to all the women
i ever loved,
would you turn away
if we crossed again?

to all the women
i will ever love,
does it matter at all
if you’re not with me?

to all the women
i ever loved,
if i caused you pain,
it was never knowingly.

to all the women
i ever loved,
if the wound still lingers—
please, forgive me.

I am no-one. Yet I feel everything.
I do everything. I am rewarded by no-one.
Tragedy? Nothing. I am owed nothing
but a fitting death.

To fish for dreams on the scales of my life,
weighing all options—faults already exposed,
a past made of glass: reflective. Fragile. And so
unforgiving.

To be credited as a modern writer, despite
my financial pressures. Swiping left on bait
too absurd to bite. My ID card? A license
to exist— plastic proof I belong to a world
that never asked for me.

Fate. Destiny. Whatever it is— tilts the odds.
I tilt back. Desperately balancing: one side,
my bank account. The other, my place. Truly
my full worth. Every moment I must make count.
And if the world won’t remember me, then let
my balance sheet of scars be the proof I existed.

almost everyone had left
by the time the clock
struck midnight.

you kissed me
at the top of the stairs,
then, after getting more wine,
announced to the room,
i’m staying here,
by the way.

my housemate
offered you blankets —
bless him,
so unaware.

you said
you’d take over my bed,
and i could sleep
wherever i wanted.

that was the night
i realised
i was madly in love.
i knew it may hurt,
but i couldn’t refuse
signing up.

you ask,
how much i drink in a week.
i say, you don’t want to know —
and you hold me
as the truth splinters
through my ribs.

then you walk me
to your car,
drive me home.
make me tell you
about drinking in silence,
in secret, alone.

but you already know.
you needed me to say it.

you want me medicated.
you want me to get help.
speak to someone,
anyone.
you can’t witness anymore
as i’m losing myself.

i don’t want you to see me like this.
i don’t want anyone to.
a part of me still resists,
still says it isn’t true.

but i am an alcoholic.
only at twenty-four.
the worst part is,
i think i’ve known all along —
i just kept thinking
if i stayed quiet,
it might stay small.

I’m so confused.
I feel my body fading.

I confessed my sin—
I was welcomed,
not judged.

But I know
I put myself in a hard place.
I’m hurting you
with my indecision.
I’m hurting you
with my choices.

Part of me just wants
to disappear.
To fade.
To die.

I crave your poetry, L.
It makes me smile—
it makes me wish
he would write the same things for me,
that he would be devoted to me
the way you are.

You don’t know I went back to him.
I know it would **** you.
I know I’m distant—
I’m peeling off the band-aid slowly.

It could be under warm water,
where the wound would soften
and there’d be no pain.
But I choose to tear it off dry,
just to feel
every fragment of hurt.

Because deep down,
I think I’m a *******.

I fell in love
with the idea of you—
with the fantasy of the past,
with our story
that never truly worked.

I feel ashamed to admit it,
because I ended my marriage
for you.
But I shouldn’t have.

Now I want to say
I ended it for me—
maybe I just don’t want
to retell this story
because the truth
throws me into despair.

I’m sorry.

You’ve helped me so much,
letting me stay at your place—
but I’m truly sorry.

Maybe
the red heart
will never come.