and it's five am,
and i should be getting
ready do to something,
anything,
but no,
i decide to
sit on the cold,
white bathroom floor,
with a lit cigarette,
and an empty bottle
of wiskey next
to me,
while in the bedroom,
my lover sleeps peacefully
on the squeaky, messy bed,
and patiently awaits
fot my arrival
back in bed,
which will never come.

Liquor on her lips
    Long before she arrived
As She walked
    She had thoughts
Of a love
       Long denied
And her pride
   Fell
As she stumbled
   Straight to hell
Sipping
   On pre game
Shame blame

I woke up to lip stick stains on the
Pillow case

and the scent of your cologne on my body

the taste of bitter liquor lingered on my tongue

while the scent of fresh coffee drifted
throughout the home

the senses were so familiar but the scenery was never the same

the bed was always in a new place
and the coffee never tasted the same

the lip stick stains were always a different
shade and I always recalled screaming
a new name

Your colour
Your texture
Your form
Everything attracts me

There could be no reprieve
There could be no solace

I would sit all day
With you in my head
Let you consume me
As I drink you
Savoring every jolt
Your taste brings to my senses.

If only that stirs me,
Otherwise I am just oblivious
To life and to others.
For them, I'm a drunkard,
For you, your most intimate lover.

I'm in love with you
And the thought of fiction makes my heart quench for more
The thought of my fingers intertwining with yours
The thought of having your heavy hands in mine, as one
Is all I'm asking for

Your lips scented of cigarettes I crave
More than any other drug I've taken
And if I overdose from the love you gave
Then I'd rather die a life that's worth getting into your haven

The thought of getting drunk by your breath leaves me breathless
Each lick, each line that goes straight to the head
Would be enough for me to stay up all night, restless

Your veins will be the last trace of blood in me
Injected and infected like a deadly disease
The thought of having you inside of me, moving freely
Coursing throughout every inch and limb of flesh that I own
Gets me higher like ******* on ice
As cold and heavy like your hands, like stones

You will be my favourite
My favourite everything
Better than the drugs that I've taken
The liquor I've been saving
To keep me awake on Friday nights
You will be better than the *** I've been having and faking
You will be better than any other man alive

And the thought of having you is like fiction asking for hope in delusion
And hate asking for love
For another chance, another try

n.j.

A lone wolf;
Solitary soldier.
Too comfortable you have become
stumbling down a path
for one.

Blinded by
eyes closed
to the world that truly lays
beyond
your chosen screen
of wool
woven, cross-stitched with
Denial.

Hands you refuse to hold
as you boldly
trek
down the dusty trail;
howling out silently
so no one may hear.

Sporting a
mask
made
of self-loathing
and fear,
vulnerability the
enemy you choose to slay,
for surrendering to
a state of
naked, raw
passion
seems more frightening
than the darkest dungeon,
stormiest night.

Gulping down
another shot
of loneliness on the rocks,
not even a splash
of soda,
for you like the way it burns.
Inhale solidarity,
snorting your
line
after
line
of
self-destruction,
acidic dispelling of
feelings
chosen not to be felt.

Sometimes, though,
in the quietest of the night,
sitting on the lip of a deep
substance-induced-slumber,
you may whisper
in a tone you would hate
to be called sweet,
and the mask comes off;

till 2 PM,
waking and at it again,
alone, a lone wolf
howls
at emotional
sobriety
and takes another
drink.

we've sent six texts to each other
since I purged my heart to you last night
one of them was a genuine apology,
and one was a faked acceptance

it doesn't matter how many times I apologize
because no matter how hard I try to act differently,
I knew the moment that the liquor touched my lips
that I would confess something to you that I would later regret

There's a poem hidden on my tongue
but I just can't find it,
my mouth is numb.

I've been sipping on winter for way too long,
this city is colder than your bubbler ****;

but I like the way it's one way streets all seem to lead from you to me,
and I like how you take them at full throttle
playing marco polo with the bottom of the bottle-

-As if you don't find it every night;
like the last few drops aren't your lullaby.

And it's an alibi that lulls you out of lucidity,
because your favourite superpower is anonymity.

And you don't mind if I show up when I'm ******* high,
because I'm a ******* child who can't handle life.

I'm the peak of the mountain all covered in white,
I'm the age old dragon,
I'm the youthful sprite

I'm the bowl that you smoke when you come down slowly,
I'm the pipe that you **** when you got no rollies.

I'm your vice, I'm your habit, I'm your bad addiction
I'm your fight, I'm your project, I'm your real life fiction.

I'm the cut on your tongue that you won't let heal,
I'm the poem in your mouth that you cannot feel.

Now I'm the lover of your discontent,
I'm the jar in your cupboard that's labelled 'rent'.

It's the 26th and the jar's still empty,
but we've got a two-six and your pouring hand's heavy.

Using whisky and water as lubrication-
it numbs and smooths through our expectations.

And I don't know when we made the agreement to feed our ***** and starve our feelings,
But my belly feels full like the waxing moon,
and my chest holds as much as a fractured spoon.

*Naked and hungry-
we share your bed
-searching for the words, in each other's heads.