Summer shandy Sandy,
The hints of lemon sour
Crack a bottle on the hour,
I practically drink it in the shower,
I should quit you but I don’t have the power.

A quick take to addiction,
My body gives into submission,
My friends all tell me to listen,
But it’s your cold taste I’ve been missing.

I struggle with the cravings,
Suicidal ravings,
Dashed to bits on pencil shavings,
Written in shame, but I ain’t praying.

Oh, Summer Shandy Sandy,
I miss the long walks,
The quiet talks,
The bomb drops,
Tell me to stop,
But I need to drink,
Don’t want to think,
About the hours later in the kitchen sink,
Where you and I could commiserate,
When I have you I don’t need no dinner plate,
You put me in a sorry state,
No real plans to situate,
But when I’m with you I’m feeling great.

Oh, Sweet Summer Shandy Sandy,
I miss the feeling,
This copacetic healing,
You’ve got my stomach reeling,
But my heart is hearing,
The low tone notes repeating,
The bottles chilled, thought I was beating,
Her sirens calling, but I’m still reaching,
For that sweet sinful cold embrace,
Of her twist off cap, and that smooth, rich grace.

Sometimes I get stuck
And it's hard to tell if I'm ok
But I can always tell that I'm unwell
When I get the urge to talk to you
You do not help me
You do not make me feel positive
And yet I have this urge
To speak to you
To give you the power to hurt me
To give you the power to break me
To take me
To abuse me
To use me
Until I am nothing more
Than an object
Your object
Not a person
Not a set of feelings
Emotionless
Dead
Yet serving a purpose
Useful
Meaningful
Something a little more than
The nothingness I feel

Shards scatter the kitchen floor;
Joel Adams plays through the radio.
Hearts chained down, wrists throbbing.
Phantoms appear, knocking the lungs empty.
He?--She?--Them; they appear on the table,
where guests are supposed to sit. The counter,
the couch, the bedroom (where guests are not supposed to be).

(But you reminisce, they're not guests anymore.)

The shelves are cold--freezing even, like a snow storm
has passed by. Not only that, but the pillows, notebooks,
that spot on the floor, the jacket, their mug.
Every single thing they've touched, it freezes every time,
and it stays.

Yearning for warmth no longer there.
Fire no longer burns, heat but a necessity.
But there is eternal warmth in the body;
the blood. The kitchen is scattered with shards of
mug, and where warmth is found in blood, fingers
squeeze onto pieces of glass.

Once again, it is warm, it is relief.

You feel warm again.
But where blood and body meet, there is no end nor beginning.
Where there was, there is.

(It's always been like this.)

Stick your fingers in my mouth.
Please.
Stick your fingers in my mouth.
Like I do.
Stick your hand down my throat,
Please.
Honey.
I’ll show you how.
To reach down my esophagus and rip the life out of me.
Like I do.
Mmm.
Just like that.

See? It’s not so hard.
Now do it again. And again and again and again and again.
Please.

A grinding halt, one fragment at a time.
Up front, that fierce direction I might need
consuming days with more than air to breathe.
Instinct to catch the sun, soaking bright light
through glowing skin. The pine to step outside
and wander in a warming morning breeze.
Dark urgency to touch; desire with ease;
it slowly slips away by flawed design.

Eventually, a breath can seem a chore
when every gasp brings aching disregard.
If breathing turns to wasted life support:
who wants a working, anesthetised heart?
To force the lungs to fill and then to fall
seems criminal when lips don’t want to part.

How the **** do I explain
That every single thing in my life
Revolves around her being here.
If she leaves, I’m ******.
If she stays, I’m ******.
How do you cope
When she loves you back
But won’t do a single ******* thing to prove it.
How do you cope
When she says she doesn’t want a life with you.
How do you cope
When you don’t think
You’ll ever be able to love anyone the way
You love her.
Since you were 13 years old,
It has always been her.
It will always be her.
How do you cope
When to her, it won’t always be you.

love is not just letting go of the memories, the laughs and the past. it's letting go of the present moment and its comfort. it's also letting go of the future and its potential to becoming tangible.

detachment is key
to a life
full of coping.

i love,
yes,
i love hard and full.
i love with
the parts of me
i normally have
numbed and dulled.

but my heart
is still
wired to
my brain.
no decisions go
unchecked or
overthought.
no love goes
without pain.

i don’t charm
others with the
intent to harm.
it always
feels like
the right play,
until i’m,
again,
stuck in-between
my heart and
my brain.

fight or flight,
that’s the game,
no attachment,
no endearment,
no loss of anything.

i hope one day
someone comes along
and cuts my string.
i hope i can love
without second thoughts,
and think without
worrying about my
love for them
getting in the way.

i hope they see
the side of me
i know is buried.

i hope they can
love me
for
me.