Why am I nostalgic,
For something that hasn't even occurred?
Why am I worried I'll lose you
But yet I won't even say a word.
Am I Caesar, and you my Brute?
Will you, whom I love
Deliver to me that devastating blow?
That ultimate betrayal of a stab in attack
"Es tu, Brute?"
As I begin to waver, quake, and fall.
I breath heavily, but I will not bawl.
I will hold my head high and collapse when I can no longer stand tall.
Knowing it is you who has made that call.
If you asked
I would never leave your side
By only your command, would I abide
Your faithful servant, your loyal slave
Your obedient puppy, whose path you pave
Whose life you save
Ask whatever you wish
I will hold no secrets from you
My solemn flower whose life blossoms by pale light of the darkened moon.
In your solitude, I offer up my servitude
I bask in your backwards beauty
and exquisitely aromatic scent
If you said
"Devote your life solely to me"
I would silently agree with no alternative pleas.
"Stand by my side through the Dark in the Night,
And stay by my side through the Light in the Sky."
I would gladly abide.
Who am I to go against your every Will, Whim, and Wish?
You, whose very whimsical whisper and sweetened shout I longingly miss.
I will blindly follow any and all commands
For you who delicately intertwines fingers or desperately grasps hands.
Lightly gracing me with your attention or violently demanding my affection.
Regardless of which path you travel down
I love it all
With you I feel safe and sound
I will gladly take and give
It is after all my job to obey
No matter what it is you say.
"Get me food."
"Be my shade."
"Help me with work."
"Stop hanging out with them."
"Tell me you love me."
"Fight them for me."
"Hurt yourself for me."
"Kill for me."
"Live for me."
. . .
Your voice used to warm my heart.
The sound takes me back,
All the way back to the start.
When my body was brand new,
I truly could not see through,
I always let them have their way.
I said no,
And you pressed on,
But not paying much attention,
To my pleas.
Other protests went unheard,
Never escaped my mouth,
The lines were always blurred.
I thought I was loved,
But that was untrue.
I was being shoved,
Into a small dark place.
A place where you could do,
All you desired to.
I let you have me,
Before I knew who I was.
Would you diagnose
This disease that's killing me
The medicine on the top shelf
Couldn't help me at most
A pain I can't describe
Jut like a virus
It divides itself
By latching to my insides
I'm going sick
Prescribe me a cure
Open me up if you must
Just let it be quick
In need of healing
Before it gets worse
Lend me a helping hand
I'm slowly dying
One kiss left my breathless,
It left me more lost than loved,
Losing my mind over this.
She brought sweet lips,
That spoke none of innocence.
Each hug was like a serpents grasp.
She brought my what she called love,
And it indeed was an addiction,
But for all the wrong reasons.
I've painted roses on ripped canvas
but the thorns of the rose
just ripped it more.
I've painted roses on ripped canvas
claiming it was art
when it just covered abuse
I've painted roses on ripped canvas
and then just tore it apart
I cant fix this, just start over
I've painted roses on new canvas
and I felt empty.
A change of canvas hasn't changed me.
Soaking up self hatred,
No more self love to dip oneself in.
Allowing the positive to fade out,
As the negative sinks in.
Misinterpreted into elegant pity.
Taking in ravishing hate,
Turning it into a new idea.
Dancing among despair,
No longer interested in the light,
That was always to bright.
Take in the negative,
Spit on the positive.
It’s cold, dark, scary.
Waves crushing on me
It hurts stings
My chest underwater
I can’t breathe.
You are over me and under me
And I can’t come back up
But then you let loose.
The water warms up
And the pressure leaves my heart.
It doesn’t hurt anymore,
Now you carry me,
Make me float
Singing me to sleep,
And it feels perfect,
And I know everything is going to be all right
Until the next storm comes.
the man in the white coat says to me,
you are not doing sadness correctly,
and who can blame him? he's seen the
broken mirrors and my glazed eyes,
even this bitten lip catalogued.
he doesn't know I painted the tile
red in November, but neither do you.
firing at the wild dark, in and out
here you are again, with the clever
tongue, saying I told you so.
what you do best,
pinning me down,
trampling us into the dirt,
the bruises blooming like
the sickest flower.
on the cusp of war,
on the cusp of kissing you.
on the cusp, where the
the edge of something great
and terrible, as far as they ever get,
as far as I ever get.
in favor of the alternate ending.
everyone wants a better story.
both of us infectious,
the human disease
is there one thing in this world we
haven't rubbed our filthy hands all over?
just one sacred place? one feeling we
haven't ground into dust with explanations?
the earth drowning in our definitions.
stay shivering in this bed, I've always
been cold, but you bring out the worst
is there just one place?
where I'm free of you?
I like when it rains on a Spring day, when the warm drops of rain fall on your bare skin and make you feel sticky. Colorful rain-jackets and flowers popping all over white picket fences. Breathing fresh humid air as if it was the first breath you’d ever taken. But what ruined it all was the boy who made my favorite season turn dreadful. I suppose dreadful is a bit of a harsh word. He made the spring season… bittersweet. Yes, what a perfect word to use. See, he made the Spring of 1998 one of my favorites of all the ‘Springs’ I’d ever celebrated. But at the same time: he ruined the fresh air with dirty cigarettes and it always seemed the dark-clouds came out when I saw him.
There was times when this boy was a pleasure to be around. Sometimes we’d lay on his bed, ripped band-posters on his wall from when he was a adolescent. He loved those posters, and I knew it, even if he wouldn’t admit it. They are what made him ‘him.’ He’d be smoking a cigarette, and the window would be slightly cracked. The only noise would be the creaky fan above us. I would curl up to him, enjoying his warmth. Once he would finish his cigarette, he would kiss my lips until they were red and we’d fall asleep like that. He would never admit that he loved me, nor did he even count me as friend, but at times like this, I forgot about the heartbreaking things he told me and enjoyed the moment while it lasted.
I often found myself picking flowers and sitting on my bed, ripping the petals out one by one and whispering, “he loves me” another petal would fall on the crumpled bedsheets, “he loves me not.” The first weeks of first meeting him, I’d lay on my bed and wonder where he was, and why he hadn’t talked to me in over a week. I got used to it though. He did that a lot. Disappeared without a trance and then came back acting as if nothing happened. Worrying turned into loneliness, and I’d lay awake at night wondering what I’d become. My joyful Spring days turned into crying in the darkness at night, and his Marlboro cigarettes that I just couldn’t get away from. The scent would be locked in my soul forever. His musky scent; cigarettes and spice.
There was one night where he threw a rock at my window, and there he was, his hair sitting perfectly on his shoulders, and his eyes blown wide in lust. Before I could even open the window any farther, he’d already pressed me on the bed and fucked me raw. After we were finished, my legs still covered in come, feeling his soft breaths on my neck, he left. Just like that. It was the first time he’d done that -- and of course I’d given him consent, I loved him. I loved the sex. But at first I’d felt so used and worthless. At least he could have stayed.
I got used to it. I always did.
That was the second time we’d had sex. The first time.. Well.. was my first time. He’d been sweet that time, though. Treating me as if I was a lover. Caressing me. Holding me after we’d finished and kissing my temple, asking if he was okay. Asking if he was good enough. Asking if my first time with him was good enough. Of course it was. Looking at those sweet sparkling brown eyes, I had thought he was different.
Just for the night he was.
Other times, we’d sneak into clubs, and he’d be dead drunk, flirting with other people. Of course I got used to it. All I’d do was beg him to use a condom and be safe. Because that was how I was. I cared about him. I cared about his safety and his health.
The night before Spring ended, we sat on the docks, dangling our legs as I leant my head on his shoulder. We watched the stars in silence, as we always did. Spring was over now, and Summer was coming around. I was going to miss Spring. It was my favorite season. It was our season. Sitting there on the docks, wondering what the hell I’d turn into. How he turned me into the person I was at that moment. I was so different, but somehow still the same. I can still remember what he said. He didn’t look at me, no. He stared at the moon, breathing slowly. “What have I done to you?”
“You made me ‘ me’ .”
He took out a cigarette, lit it, took a smoke, and then handed it to me. I took it from his raw and calloused hands, and breathed in the scent. After removing the cigarette from my chapped lips, I kissed him sweetly, and he surprisingly kissed me back. As if we were lovers. I felt alive.
The next morning, I awoke alone in my bed. It wasn’t a surprise he didn’t come back after a week. But then he never came back.
Every Spring I’ll hold up a cigarette in his memory, wondering where he went and who he’s with. I’ll hold it up to the stars and whisper,
“What did you do to me?"