“Defiance and Dust”
By E.J Crowe

I met you once—
just a passing hello,
like two ghosts brushing shoulders
in a world too loud to notice.

But I noticed.
God, I noticed.

Your name carved itself into
some hollow part of me
that craved
the strange,
the sharp,
the sacred.

You—
eyebrows shaved into defiance,
a lip ring like a dagger’s whisper,
a necklace of spikes—
armor or love letter to pain.

You freeze hair.
You collect teeth.
You wade through dust-covered hallways
where time forgot to breathe.

And you call that beauty.
And now?
So do I.

We don’t speak much.
A like here,
a comment there—
little pulses of proof
that you still walk this digital earth,
that maybe you see me too.

But still—
I love you quietly,
like moths love flame—
a slow-burning ache
I never swat away.

I trace the edges of your silence—
a secret tattoo inked beneath my skin—
something no one else can see,
but burns all the same.

You move like a shadow’s echo,
fading in and out
of my fractured daylight.

And I am tethered—
to the ghost of your defiance,
to the soft collision of your madness and grace.

Sometimes I want to rip
my beating heart
out of my own chest—

hand it to you—
blood warm, pulsing—

watch my ribs collapse to dust—
ashes falling like mournful snow.

You’d hold me then, horrified—
but with that devilish smile
only you could wear.

Sometimes I wonder if you even know
how much you haunt me—

not as a curse,
but as a fragile, flickering light
I dare not reach for.

Your playlist bleeds.
Your smile doesn’t beg
to be understood.

Your hobbies flirt with madness—
and yet somehow—
you are the sanest piece of art
I’ve ever seen.

A walking gallery of grief and grace—
macabre in the most delicate ways.

You don’t need saving.
You never did.

But if you ever look my way—
really look—

just know—

I’m still here.

In awe.
In shadow.
In love
from afar.

"At Least I Have My Voices"
by E.J. Crowe

Why so isolated?
Why the **** am I so alone?
Why the **** does everyone turn—
or betray—
******* zealots and fakes,
wolves in sheep’s clothing,
friends with fake love,
fake life,
fake smiles—
I see the cracks bleeding through your mask.

Your words speak kindness,
but your heart drips venom.
Why are you like this?

People hate me.
For what?
Because I speak truth?
Because I’m unfiltered?
Because I’m real?

Well, *******.
My family, my friends, my fake ******* support group.
The ones who force laughs at dumb jokes
then whisper prayers for my downfall.

I see your plans—
like scripture on stained glass.
I see the blade behind your back.
You want me to fall,
to relapse,
to burn.

Empty pill bottles whisper to me—
“Come home.”
They were my only peace,
my only silence,
my only truth.

I scream for help
from a glass fortress—
bare soul,
bleeding mind.
But somehow,
you make it about you.

Am I not human?
Do I not deserve love
that doesn't come with a leash?

Unconditional love is extinct—
a fossil of something real.
Man, I miss real…
Real conversation.
Real connection.
Real peace.

My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep pills in the house.
My hands are shaking.
But I don’t keep ***** in the house.
****.

My mirror is crying.
...Wait.
That’s me.
At least—
what’s left of me.

I don’t even recognize my own cold eyes
as I sit
crying on the bathroom floor,
shower running so my wife doesn’t hear,
hugging myself,
screaming into my palms,
trying to smother the voices—

SHUT THE **** UP.

But they don’t.
They never do.
They remind me
what a lost cause I am.

And sometimes,
sometimes I wonder
if even my kids love me conditionally.
(God, that’s disgusting to think...)

But it’s in my head—
and that’s the worst place to be.
Even my therapist quit on me.
No text. No warning. Just—gone.

Truly alone.

...

At least I have my voices.

Finally I Can Sleep
By E.J Crowe

Groggy as I come to—
Vision blurred—
Surrounded by a puddle of puke,
Cigarette ash and Budweiser perfume the air like rot in my lungs.

I'm half-naked,
Head jackhammering,
Tooth gone—
Who the **** am I?
Where the **** am I?

Next to me,
A dark-haired woman lies still—
Dried ***** mats her curls like glue from last night’s regret.
I glance around—
Subway station.
Concrete.
Filth.
Stale **** thick like ghosts in the air.

Then—
A loud noise—

"******* STOP!! MY HEAD!!"

The train.
It roars through my skull,
Splitting me open,
Stimming, shaking, escaping,
Reality starts to unravel—
So I dig in my pocket,
Fingers fumbling for salvation.

A worn, unmarked bottle—
Pop one…
Maybe I’ll forget again.
Another…
Maybe I’ll feel better.
Another…
Maybe I’ll O.D.

She gasps awake,
But she’s not really here—
Half-blind, incoherent,
I lift her—***** and all—over my shoulders,
Her hair stings my nose but I don’t flinch.
I should be used to this.
This is my life.

On the train again,
Noise like God screaming,
I collapse into a seat.
Light a smoke.
Nod off.
The world moves.
I recognize the stops—
My town.
My home.
A sliver of hope beneath this decay.

We stumble to my front door.
Dad opens it.
I whisper—

"Help her. She needs to sober up."

Bloodshot eyes.
Cold sweats.
Puke-stiff hair.

He looks at me like death just spoke and murmurs—

"What friend?"

I look beside me.

Nothing.
No one.

She never existed.
I made her.
Built her in my mind so I wouldn’t have to shoot up alone.
So I could pretend I wasn’t this far gone.

He punches me in the face—
And for the first time in days,
Weeks,
Years…

Finally… I can sleep.

Flawed, Love
by E.J. Crowe

I get chills trying to love—
cold sweats, goosebumps,
when **** starts to weave right for once.
I self-destruct.
Blow up.
Turn toxic in the worst way.
Push the webs of depth and truth
to the darkest corners.

I yell.
I swear.
I break ****.

Why?
When love = pure.
But for me, pure =
hidden agendas,
secrets and ***** whispers.

My life only feels normal
when surrounded by chaos and pain—
that’s how my parents and foster homes molded me.
My love ballets are spiteful, *****.
“You stupid *****, you dumb *****,”
as I choke her and feel her wetness.
That’s passion.
That’s love.

Bedroom erotica.
Most women love that.
Especially my wife.
She was there—
when I was homeless, addicted.

Yet still,
tick tick tick,
I try and self-destruct.
The quiet explosion.
Tension.
Fake arguments.
Secret love.

Can I be honest?
Can I deliver my flawed, honorable love?
Or is it just lust that makes me crazy?

Her curves—
a canvas to explore
with calloused hands.
Roaming.
A hitch in her breath.
A gasp—
as she wraps her legs around me
and pulls me deep.

Can I be normal?
Is this normal?

Long nights,
shallow thoughts,
while she sleeps in a lustful glazed haze.
She loves our intimate time—
when I degrade and choke.
Once it's over,
it’s like an elongated dream.
“I love you.”
“I love you more.”

Back to innocence.
Hand-holding.
Kissing.
And in that moment of calm,
I finally feel something close to peace.

She kissed my scars like they were scripture,
and I bled peace for the first time.

"The Box"
by E.J. Crowe

Here in the dark,
I feel safe
from a crude, despicable world.

I shroud myself in darkness
and self-loathing,
my mind races like euphoria
seeping through the fragile cracks
of my forever-decaying mind.

I sit in the woods
and ponder in deep-rooted thought.
Society already discarded me—
labeled me roadkill,
useless,
a loser.

They might as well have handed me
a loaded gun,
a noose,
a heavy bottle of Percs and Oxys,
forever deluding my sense
of social connection.

I chose to stay away from the humans.
This is peace—
among famine, war,
and hateful people
with fake smiles
and hollow souls.

I only feel whole
laying in the woods,
my only company:
a half-empty 40
and a crushed pack of cigarettes.

Smoke.
Think.
Smoke.
Drink.
Smoke.
Stop.

My soul cannot forgive this world.
It's forever lost
and ******.

I choose to dance in silence
with the voices in my head,
confronting my own demons.

Through the box,
I see the truth.
That’s peace.

How thou art fallen, in darkness torn
That hath bound thee in endless mourn
Feelest how the moon drowns in sea
A song of vengeance, tenderly
Thou art in silence wearing souls
A sullen night where lone bells toll
Thy sorrow draped in veils so dark
Yet speaks wisdom as its art
Seek, o seek the path in dream,
As a dawn comes to redeem.

"Through the Cracked Door"

My childhood was empty—
Bleak.

Not at first.
Through the looking glass,
we looked like the Hallmark dream—
smiles painted on,
love rehearsed.
A family photo framed in lies.

But behind the cracked door,
beneath the peeling paint,
through dilapidated windows and stained curtains—
you’d see the truth.

Abuse.
Trauma.
No lullabies. No warm embraces.
Might as well have strung the noose themselves—
wrapped tight 'round my throat.
My heart beat loud in my chest
as I heard my father’s footsteps—
a countdown to pain.
The only peace I knew
was silence.

Do they love me?
They must… right?

Mom—numb on pills,
Dad—gambling away rent money,
Dinner—skipped.
Bruises—not.
Blood. Scars.
Lies wrapped in lullabies that never came.

When do I get saved?

Foster care?
Another joke.
Another hollow house,
cracked foundations.
Smiles made of plastic and practiced phrases.
But when the social worker left—
it was back to beatings.
Back to blood.
Back to scars.

When does it end?

Wire wrapped around my heart,
blood filling my ears,
voices fade—
I’m fading.
I’m lost.

Fast forward.
Hit play.

I’m 16.
Homeless.
Ran away.

Found comfort in poisons—
drugs, *****,
and strangers’ arms.

My blood became my ink.
Pain became my voice.
Cold. Alone.
But finally—
free.

Caught in the moon's dead white gaze
I’ve paid my dues.in kind,
To be sent off in this black parade.

Come now, swing wide those gates
A myriad of colors drained in white bouquets

Should the rain come,
Wash over the lye stone, erode my face
I’ve cried into the pulpit of my maker’s feet
To weigh my sins against my deeds.

Walk into this hallowed empty
Gray billowing fog upends me
Lost wanders scream but it’s deafening
Can’t hear the sound of their pallid fingers scratching.

Madness incurable—
Dead eyes mercurial
Set upon dim light,
But the veil from here to there is impervious
Birth me like a newborn
Walls clamping breaking my new form.

I’m drifting further out to sea,
In an endless ocean walled off in opaque white
No horizons to warn me of the fall,
The long way down,
Where the magma ravines wait to strip my flesh
Naked and razed, undeterred but afraid
Will I ever see you again?

Let the rain fall,
Impervious skin along the casket door
My claustrophobic bed
Final in my rest.