Incense smoke lingers heavily in the air,
attempting to mask the smell of stale beer
and spilled **** water.
Arrest warrants hang with straight A report cards
and dated paintings I used to call art.

You and I, woven in between soft and stained sheets
on my hand-me-down mattress.
Our clothes, thrown into heaps on the floor.
I stare at faded, falling posters while you trace my scars
left by a pair of hands before yours.

Buddha watches over dusty photo albums and
half read books I will never finish as
Mary hangs off your neck
watching over an unfinished me.

We lay underneath burned out bulbs of ceiling
string lights listening to scratched CDs skip,
sharing a sweet cigarette.
I know you and I are not forever.
like these walls I have                                                          out­grown.

Defecated, or did I say defeated
fated to live this life
barren as loose shoe strings
fraying a little at the ends.
Like a torn T-shirt
I am covered in holes and stains
splotches that just don’t
seem to go away.
Defeated in the mere inches I take
or the hearts that I break

but the only heart I break is my own.
How to pick up the pieces
when I am
piece-less
peaceless, no peace here.
So all I do is clench and worry
and hope that one day defeat
might become a feat
that can actually go somewhere
move someplace out of reach
as I seem to speak
of dreams unaccomplished and maimed
of dreams inferred striking infrared filters
that whisper mere fragments
of my name.

a searching universe
continued cries
evil kisses upon lies

worried people
missing secrets
the town is suddenly screaming

admist the chaos
wrapped in longing
a boy and his repeated demons
faded and stained
all but the same
darling bleed and release

often i look down at myself,
my body,
and ask myself what have i done to it?

these feet,
used to nakedly wander through grass,
roll wobbly on blades,
kick carelessly in water.
now,
they sink into quicksand.

these legs,
used to run for infinity,
swing into clean air,
lounge across chair arms.
now,
they are streaked pale.

this stomach,
used to tremble with light,
dance in the sun,
lie flat.
now,
it dips in hills and valleys.

these arms,
used to lace through trees,
hang heavily on bars,
hold my body.
now,
they recoil.

these hands,
used to form art with fire,
write to remember,
caress plant buds.
now,
they pick at petals.

this body.
now,
stained with regret.

Stained glass shattered shards
raining down in my sight
landing on the copses of lies
watching light with dead eyes
the coldest nights hold my stolen breath
which grows into longest death
thoughts slip by on wings of yesterday
in the silence there is so much to say
hesitant waves flow through the light
resting on the longest night

When you dip her on the dance floor,
It's the color of her dress,
As she whispers in your ear,
It's the color of her lips,
When you make love,
It's the color that she leaves on your back,
With every scratch,
It's the color of the kisses,
And hickeys,
She leaves all over your body.
It's the color of your anger,
When she pushes you away,
It's the color of the words don't touch me.
It is sharp,
It's the color of the blood that you bleed,
When you hear those words,
It's the color of your eyes after a long night with no sleep,
because you were up thinking about her.
It's the color of her eyes,
as she cries,
and begs you to come back to her.
It's the color of your fist,
moments after you break,
and punch a hole in the wall.
It's the color of her face,
when she's angry at you,
but also the color of her love.
It's the color of her tear stained face,
as you kiss her,
and tell her everything is going to be alright.
It's the color of the love,
and lust,
you have for each other.
It's the color you can't stay away from.

is it the ever flowing images that keep me "going", that keep me "from moving"?

quite confusing, in both ways.

in some ways they allow the blood in my veins to rush to my cheeks when I chose, even sometimes by surprise, but in others, I can barely fathom a moment without them, the memories.

if I were to be living without the images of you, I suppose I would begin to visit you in dream; like someone I have never met but would like to.

you are a dream in all honestly...at least now you are.

there is a nauseating rush now, like a cracked mosaic, like a weak cherry tree in the late fall, like an yelled secret in outer space; and all I suppose is real, are the words I say in my sleep, the longing I remember when I wake, the pain I feel later in the day when I try and remember every arrangement of letters than passed my lips, your fruit punch stained ones.

a third is good, a third is bad, and the other third is neutral...

stuck in the middle, consuming both the good and the bad, blending in camouflage.

I cannot tell which is which.

-Julia Aubrey Rhodes-

My confession
I'm a wretch
A miserable
Broken soul
Stained black in sin
I am shattered

But I am reborn
Scarred, yes
But reborn
Cleansed in fire
Washed
Clean
Pure crimson

I will dive
Deeper
Swallowed whole by the sea
The purifying surf
I will never surface
Yet I will never drown

I The Wicked Son
Drenched in Saving Scarlet