Wild fires are not meant to be beautiful yet we still fight the urge to climb to mountains ridge to get a better view and feel the heat of the flames on our cheeks to remind us of the same feeling on our cheeks when they told us they loved us. Yet we still can’t correlate that both are equally destructive.

I should come with a ******* warning label,
cautioning others about my tendencies
toward self-destruction,
and warning them of the consequences
of choosing to get too attached
to the inevitable time bomb of me.

I try to warn them away,
but they don't listen,
or they brush it off as nonsense.

"You shouldn't love me," I say,
eyes deep with grief
because I know the truth of the words.

But nobody heeds my ******* warnings,
so I'm left stepping over the remains
of us, having to live with the knowledge
of what I've done.

******, I tried to tell you.
But no one ever listens,
they refuse to believe.

And in the end I'm left having to watch
you shatter, knowing I'm the cause.
I tried to warn you.
You should've listened.

For both partners, in a protracted dance, out of step, for long time,
it was creativity, at the best in the destructive mode,they are well versed,
like in a music record, cacophonous,their marital discord did manifest,
was made to look,an art form, instillation like, with many possibilities.

fair skinned and lonely,
I let you damage the thin barrier between
you and myself with each word and whisper of "I love you,"
until nothing was left but a cancerous being,
malignant and self destructive.

Intangible facets of chaste delicacy
dance under the curtains in poised stability;
shattered, self-battered, strengthened it may,
those fine lines, those fissures, his cigarettes portray.

He retreats into his home, and
Now his ritual's begun,
He briefly questions his decisions, and
The person he's become.

Now he brings to birth, an orange flame
Beneath a tarnished silver spoon.
His eyes fixate on glints of light,
Which penetrate his living room, and
Flood into his windows, from the
Autumn evening's harvest moon, and

He looks down into the spoon, he
Smiles, and gives a simple nod, and
Now with unremitting reverence, he is
Praying to his God, and begging:

"Sanctify me, rectify me,
"Tranquilize, mesmerize me,
"Pacify me, O' great master, so
"That I might know thy peace, and
"Fill me with intrigue, pon which,
"My famished soul might feast!"

"Won't you please..."

"Light my darkness?
"Stoke my flame?
"Calm my mind and
"Heal my pain?

"Dry my weary,
"Weeping eyes, and
"Grant my heart, to
"Feel again?"

"If only for a moment,
"Let me know that
"I'm still live! and

"Fill me with your beauty,
"That of which, I'm so deprived!"

Now, he draws up with his needle,
The cold steel then tears a hole,
He feels relief, that within seconds,
He will once again be whole.

Back he pulls, as crimson stains the walls
He pushes in, and back he falls,
Into the velvet wonderland, of
Blankets on his bed.

His prayer indeed, was not refused
He feels fulfilled, he is renewed,
Well, at least until tomorrow's
Vicious cycle starts anew.

Bitterness beseeches every
          GROTESQUE
                             Inch    of     me

Thoughts of your light enveloping
my existence in a
         condemnation
of
    sabotaging
                      dreams.

I am the dark queen, and you,
you are my ghost.

Haunting me perilously.

The destruction of my kingdom is welcomed.
        Dismantle
                Decimate
                        Destroy.
Poison me with ANY
                                    Affliction.
I welcome the cardinal sins of my evocations.
Blasphemy of my soul
Awakened and stripped
Of us, leaving me
Welcoming the blackness.

a watched *** never boils
and you stared at my every move
not knowing
that I would never bubble over
into the person
you hoped
me to be

for two weeks
I thought there was a baby
growing inside me
but instead
I was just late to understanding
how little you need me
and pregnant with the idea
that I could not live without you

my mother taught me
to never judge a book by its cover
but I forgot
that even the prettiest books
can have no literary value

the first (and only) time
you treated me
as your equal,
we were sitting outside
under the stars
and the moon,
which was ever so slightly
blue

my blessing
was not disguised
as a man that looked
and acted
like a mannequin
but rather
a crack in my heart
that took three years to make
and three months to fill

as it turns out,
I am a cloud
with skin made of silver