In the dark
I write you a letter
hoping it would reach you

It starts like this:
My beloved,
I love you still

From afar,
but I still love you
as tenderly
as ardently
as ever

I hunger for you
as violently
as madly  
as ever

And I wait

A tourture that breaks and distorts my mind
Every calorie cafrefully chosen
Written in a journal
Every thing ive eaten since 8th grade
No breakfast
Running out the door a weitght in my stomach
No lunch
Drinking a monster
10 more calories than I need
Vaping in the bathroom
Dinner
Dreaded dinner
I have to sit and eat with my family
No excuses
Work it off after dinner
Do I go there
Do I sit on the floor racking my lungs
I can feel the fat settle on my bones
Crying myself to sleep
Repeat

the poem i resist digs deeper into my chest like a buried soulmate. it grows blurry and distant until i can’t find the sharpness of it, but i can still taste how it made me feel. the feeling becomes a dull hunger. the distorted memory of a bite. still gnawing, lost, hopeful that i will give in to my undoing and gruesomely reveal the bloodied shadow of a bluff that has been called home. neither of us can sleep. my teeth ache. when the sky turns purple with torment, i end up in the woods, collecting feathers, consumed in the uncaging of a fire that will never catch

I am a caricature of humanity
- a picture of its seething bowels.

I am its sloshing,
quivering, yet wholly earnest intestines
made manifest - I am,
the inside-out freak show
we all crave
dancing before your eyes
oh, and what a feast of eloquent gizzards you witness!

Feast your eyes, my friends!

I am what you wish you weren't
yet know you could be
as you yearn to be as free as me
all your shame and volatile desires
all your sadness and madness
all your dreamful bliss
I profess it daily
in an ode to you, my fathers and mothers,
in an ode of love for absurdity,
I am the cartoon character made free of its stage
the puppet made free of its strings
the loon, made free of his rage,
a benign insanity,
not capable of harming a germ.

Don't pass by
by all means
gawk
it's my pleasure that you do so
breathe my callousness in
shudder at the thought of being so exposed
having all your human nature bleeding there
like my crying eyes
as I tell you of all my past loves
and how I still love them
yes
even the meatloaf
still eating it
that baby towel
still snuggling it
that algebra homework?
Still completing it
and there's a missing grade somewhere
in a dusty book in a warehouse
imagine
how I'd creep in,
decades from now,
hours before my death,
open that tattered grade-book,
pen myself an A+ for my immaculately completed work
- fist pump the air!
Take that Ms. Cramsworth! I may not have beaten algebra,
but I beat you!

Die right there
in that warehouse
amongst all the other freaks.
There's Bigfoot, who slipped accidentally one day, got impaled by a branch, then called 911 - he had no health insurance, that's all she wrote. Bigfoot's just another disenfranchised-American statistic now. Bigfoot's last painful hours were spent taking selfies with holocaust deniers and people fashioning MAGA hats - some with rifles for effect - it was then Bigfoot regretted voting for Trump and only then. You were just rudely-awakened from having sympathy for Bigfoot, weren't you? Poor baby. Save our souls.
Then there are the cryogenically frozen heads of the Illuminati we're all worried about - they're trying to sleep until humanity can make them superhuman bodies.
A flying saucer that was alien in so far that it was actually a time-machine from our distant future that brought people back to warn us of an all-consuming genocidal calamity, but they spoke a language we didn't understand, had genetically surpassed us, and therefore were unrecognizable to our labs, and we took their highly-advanced babbling as acts of war when they tried to **** the Illuminati heads - killed them then, so tragic - ate their gizzards for research. Now we're all doomed to die... Their bodies were lain next to the Illuminati heads. Centuries later, the same couple, now janitors from the freak warehouse, see themselves, find the time-machine-saucer, and start the time-loop again... inadvertently causing the end of humanity because they messed up the timeline.

... and that's exactly why I never did my homework.
Humanity is doomed to die in some distant future caused by the doom-couple and so I refused to put a brick in the wall. I refused because all I was was a...nother brick in the wall and I hated it.

Because as fascinating as I am.
As absurd as I am.
As much of a human marvel as I am.
I don't matter. I matter the least.

And so that's why I had to die in that off-the-books warehouse,
full of priceless and unmentionable artifacts.
They wouldn't ever put me there, but I had to die with the legends.
I had to give my life meaning somehow.
If I can't live a legend, I will die one... by the way the janitors put me in the trash out back anyway.
I end up in an east-Asian landfill somewhere, kicked in the face by barefoot sweatshop kids who just so happened to make the sneakers on my very feet. Isn't that poetic justice? What a send-off!

And so isn't that all a satisfying and cathartic end,
giving closure to the most absurd poem,
with the most random details,
wasn't that fun?

The lesson I had learned was that I have to allow it.
When it comes, I have to let it rip me apart.
It's a good lesson. I apply it to every pain.

But with this thing in particular, allowing may not
be enough.

I don't know how else to say it anymore.

What do I say? That I want you to **** the pride out of me,
So something in me shatters and I allow, allow
That I want to do the same for you?

That I'll let you hold my mouth open, so you see what I can never seem to say, so you see your name, so you see yourself dripping down my chin?
What do I say-
That nobody was sharp enough to even try, that sharpness is what I've become-
That nobody told me what to do with a blade that is alive.

I'll tell you.
Everything alive knows only to be what it is. To grow, to be more of itself.
The blade that is alive knows only to be sharp. And over the years, only grows sharper.

But if I say it, if I say these things, what will you say?
Angel.
Tell me you can dull me.
You, golden blade.
Tell me you want to.

to know universe
in life's imaginations
a death of hunger

Think the saddest thing about this land
Is how hard it tries to live
To hold, to let go— how it
Stills in the middle of a catastrophe
How it sings
Only when no one’s about to hear
How its silence
Is never wholly true

How the clouds go by
And the suns
The crescents grow up and pass
And people—
Yet it, shuddering, remains
And how it struggles
To weave peace out its
Wavering fields

And ever-dancing cities—
The dance of a Persian woman
In shackles
How it slaughters its own flowers
In search of their seeds
How it breaks apart
In the middle of a night
In the middle of a little girl’s question
In the middle of a smile

How the maidens
Keep on hanging their dresses to dry
And children keep hunting
For helpless worms
And snows melt into grasses
Till they too sail away
Yet it, shuddering, remains

How it will gnaw away the town
It carved itself
Feast upon its own beautiful bones
How hard it struggles to stir
In its own queer death
And how it will wither
And wither, and wither
And not tire—

It is its own hateful god.

Has it ever happened to you that
Have you ever felt like living was not enough.?
Like you craved something so rich and true that existence felt like it paled in comparison?
That’s how I want.

I think I feel desire the way gods do.

I want completely. I want to wrap my tongue around yours. I want to reach inside you and kiss your beating heart. I want to be able to look at you and see the things behind your eyes and hold the hand inside your hand.
I want you to **** me as foreplay.

Do you th
Do you think gods want like this?
Do I want to be consumed the way a god does?
Bored with existence. Needing the light behind the light.
I want to forget my name when you **** me.
I want nothing but us to exist.

I want us to take turns killing each other.
I want the ecstasy of death. What replaces that? What could replace that?
What will I do if I can’t have it?
I’ll throw another fit, and sit on the edge of the bed with my leg bouncing, again, like I have so many times before. Before. Before you.

I don’t think there’s a cure.