We love like doughnuts
sweet all around, flavorful
empty in the core

If I wrote a song about me
The intro would be a happy melody.
I’d miss a couple chords
Hum some notes a little too sharp
But it’s okay

The first verse would be laughter
Dancing through the sun’s rays
White keys beneath my fingers
Playing the major

The second verse would fog over
minor notes bleeding through
each wrong sound a confession
I prayed no one would hear

The chorus would unravel
Restless chords, circling, choking
A violin played with shards of glass

The third verse would be filled with screaming
Raw and jagged
Into the void where I hoped to disappear
The fourth would fade into silence
And the fifth would hollow to a ghost

Then the devil's interval would loop, waiting for the next line

Well… here we are again.

I went out for drinks at the local pub,
thinking maybe I wouldn’t be invited
because you’ve been happier with other people.
And I know you’re happy with them…
but I feel like a dog chained to a post,
no sign of its owner ever coming back.
Left behind by you. Again.

I’m sad. I’m angry.
But more than anything
I’m numb.
Numb to what I give,
numb to what I am.
Because you’ve shown me, time and time again,
that I contribute nothing.
Absolutely nothing.

I’m useful when it suits you,
and invisible when it doesn’t.
Used when it’s convenient,
discarded when it’s not.

My chest aches like a wound,
a pain that refuses to heal.
Do I really mean nothing?
Am I even anything at all?
What worth emotional, monetary,
Do I hold in your eyes?
Maybe something,
Probably nothing.

You’ve shown me in your absence of care.
And now, worse
You’ve crossed a line.
That I thought friends at least
Would never cross

You hurt me. Physically.
I showed my best friend the bruises.
The one person I trust most in this world.
They were outraged.
I cried into the phone
as their voice cracked with anger for me.

And I am terrified
terrified you’ll do it again.
Terrified the bruises will grow into something more.

Maybe that’s all I am to you
a bag to be punched.
A thing to dig your nails into until I bleed.
A stool to climb on,
a vessel to pour your relief into.

Every time I ask
to share something,
anything as simple as a film,
or a meal,
you say you’re busy.
Already have plans.

But then I see you.
See you watching a film,
ordering food
with someone else.
Someone new.

And I’m done begging.
Done giving willingly,
When I only see you in scraps,
in borrowed moments,
in the silence between your excuses.

I’m mourning a loss
That hasn’t even been buried yet.

I’m close.
So close to walking to the river,
Again.
To swim into the void,
to sink into the end that should have come
long ago.

These last few years
the best and the worst
will have been my everything.

And maybe in my absence,
you’ll finally gain something.
Maybe then,
I’ll have been worth… anything at all.

Maybe…

I can see myself wasting away
and
drooling on the carpet,
playing guitar
in empty rooms,
sitting in old bones.
no one is there to hear it
but it still plays,
it still comes through
like that—
with or without an audience,
with or without reason,
with or without permission,
as if it was more important
to be born than to be noticed or polite.
if I make it
to those old bones
and empty rooms,
to that guitar,
what will it sound like?
will I hear melodies of connection,
threnodies of yet un-lived sorrows,
interludes of foggy nobility?
I am deaf to the music of my life
but if I listen closely
I can hear death
playing music in another room
behind
a closed door.

You work in strange buildings that look like reconstituted dinosaur thought...

A smelly half smile, with capsule slogans
You keep the divide well, healthy, open...
For those who see straight through your empty notion...
All of you is lizard leather, shooting feathers
Numbing intelligence for data is clever...

Can’t get a grip on you...
I’m lichen– crystal; falling into wild weather
Waiting in mirrors far from you...
Watching your persuasion wither.