There is oblivion. There is space.
There is futility. There is ubiquity.
There is pride. There is defeat.
There is emptiness. There is resentment.
There is darkness. There is rage.

The cacophony drowns all exaggeration.
It leaves no pity, offers no fight.

There is fury, it is black.
There is fury, it does not ****.
There is fury, it showers no wrath.
It rots, it stays, it rots some more.

There is hope. Hope is dying.
It bleeds away, a crimson trail.
The fury is poison, it will prevail.

Morbid humour, judicious hate.
Delightful anguish, dusty slate.
The mirror lets me walk away.

I foster a monster
Of my own creating;
"Self-defeating" he slithers
As his skin festers into smiling,
Unrelenting and repeating;

So I slit my throat
With the cold knife of self-loathing,
Coating my skin
With a red dress
Of the life I've been wasting.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I was born into a poor family:
dad the drunkard,
mom the **** addict,
brother abusive,
and sister wrist slitter,
in '84.

Mealtime portions measly.
The house's fragmented windows,
chipping paint
and carpet, ash stained beyond cleaning,
forced me to attempt an escape
several times.
Its a wonder we had a house at all!
I was the only one who worked.

From 10:00 until 7:00
in the dead of winter I used to stand
in clothes so thin
I was better off not even wearing them.
In '97 I was too young to work
legally.
But I wasn't too young for the men-
and I admit, some attractive-
who would pull up to
2nd and King.
I just crawled in the backseat,
assumed the position,
and took my beating
for not being born to the right family,
class,
city,
house...
...... corner...
..................men...
...........................­..­....

I can't look at that sign
marking the corner
without thinking of
crotch after crotch
until it was etched in my brain
that the male genitalia
was the epiphany of evil.
I have to turn my head.

I dread 2nd and King to this day.

I’ve been saying, “tomorrow,” for the last three months, dreaming again in a bent and hollow sort of way, shoving myself into all of my crooked corners. I’ve purposely avoided it up to now, trying to dodge it, like an expert lightning runner —my sad attempts to slip unnoticed past the inevitable summer months.

It denies my wishes for a moderate temperature and ruthlessly tortures me with its slow crawl in my direction, wrapping its clammy hands around my throat to pin me to hot pavement; sparks within me and kindles unkempt fires, burns me at the shoulders like Memorial Day fireworks —feels so potent I can almost see it tucked behind the horizon. Waiting.

I want to taste a sky that slowly darkens, bowing its graceful head to welcome a storm that may never come, existing only to fool me into praying another day for rain.

When I gave you my heart in Pandora's box,*
locked and sealed, and safe from me,
You did not taint nor break my heart,
You simply lost the key--

*It is there where all my hatred starts...

Where should I start?
Why, I don't even know!
Just hearing your name
makes my eyes glow.

It's not called love.
Even passion doesn't fit.
When I hear your name
my face is lit.

From our first time
I was swept off my feet.
It's your name
that makes my heart skip a beat.

I like its taste.
I like its sound.
When I hear your name,
I'm spellbound.

I must conclude
by saying what's to follow:
Without you,
my heart seems hallow.

You are what you eat
I *****
She looks familiar