Sometimes,
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.

A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.

My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.

In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.

The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.

My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.

Not in an
exploitive,
let's-glamourize-depression
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
"*******, cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.

See,
within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****,
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.

Here,
I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or
disposable.

Here,
my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.

Here,
they love me
in spite of the sadness.

Here,
we share a song--
here,
they sing with me.

They kiss sometimes
Mostly when the moon is high
And the stars are blurry
Diluted by the fourth and fifth whiskey
Details of this velvet cloaked romance
Are kept sparse
Once daylight touches their skin
Watered down recollections
Remain under lock and key
Hidden in that dark box
Not even the brightest sunbeams penetrate

don't mistake love for lust
he may pry your legs open and kiss inbetween them in a way that makes you feel like you're touching heaven
but if he doesn't talk to your little brother like he's his own
or hug your mom so tight it's as if he's saying "thank you for her"
if he only calls you after midnight
when the liquor running through his bloodstream makes his body ache
he is only looking for someone to meet him at the bottom of a bottle and not someone to trace circles on his hands underneath his parents dining room table
he will keep his thoughts in like smoke he can't exhale
and you will drive yourself mad trying to pry them out of the same lips you thought would heal you
because the truth is no man can love you who doesn't love himself

Creeping guilt
Haunting shame
Liquid burn
Checking out now
When my mind won't slow
Distilled rye
Filling the gray canyons, the crevices
Pulsing, swimming fire
Hopes that this poison
This pleasure
Will scorch
And end
This madness

The feeling of your lips on mine
moving in synch to the music
slurred words
I cannot remember
laughter and tears
caused by forgotten actions
waking up
the next morning
feeling like
it wasn't me.

when times
turn to lines,
and we deform
through indigenous
degeneration-

we, as the ones
that had time stand
perfectly still
at midnight,
between the past
and the
upcoming,

gave in to the
sloth, the
gluttony, the
pride, the
wrath, the
lust, the
greed, the
envy,
and chose to
thrive
eternally,

on the
absurd.

on the absurd,
with the
cheeks and foreheads,
on the absurd
with the
black dresses, shirts
and smiles,
on the absurd,
with all its wobbling,
wishes
and hungover
mourning
in the
morning.

we gave ourselves up
to be groped by the force of time,
and time ended up
making love to us,
*******
majestically.

the table fills
with empty cups,
and we
dance
until
the cups topple,
lay a new,
crackling
plastic
carpet

underneath
our restless hearts
and
beating feet.

I want you to stay
When I ask you to leave

I want you to say nice things
When it's falling apart for me

You asked me
To help a dying man -and I did

With bruises on my arms
A kiss on my lips

You ran out of your cigarette
I ran out of wine

I let the fate ****** all
What once was mine

You hurt me so good
Spinning me around all night

Holding me so tight
So you don't lose the sight

After all, you're the cage I dread
A ghost –infatuating my mind

You came to burn my soul
I've seen the rage,
In your dark eyes,
I have seen the ravaging fire

a king
spends
a month’s worth
of rent
in four days
to get high
and drunk,
and then
even more
drunk
and a tiny bit
more high
to fit in
yet another
drink
until he’s
just fine.

imagine-
you became poor,
but were a king;

tired boots
collecting
dust,
and coins,
cigarette buds,
on your way.