How could I still want you
when I don't know the first thing
about
the pangs of hunger
or the mystic desire;
I'm not one for such carnal tastes.

I'll never feel the way you do.

We can never love again
without combustion,
a self-destruction,
if our lips were to meet
again;
we were never meant to be.

I wish I could kiss the memory of you,
and travel back just once
to when I was naive enough
to hold you close
and feel my anxiety burn and frazzle out
in your arms;
when I was meek enough to nuzzle in
to your soft neck, your lying throat,
and whisper that I loved you
with warm breath I wasted
for two years,
or to finally remember
how unfit our bodies were
pressed together in the dark,
despite our cheery smiles
hidden in hot sheets,
because I want to kiss
something too good to be true
and pretend I don't know it.

I tricked myself
into trusting that I mattered
as much as I thought you did
and that every gentle touch
meant you'd work to be
everything you said you would
and that each fragile whisper down my neck
was a promise
of affection,
not a signal of coercion,
not a white lie to keep me down,
to have me resting next to your body
in shallow warmth,
lost in translation.

Eyes are windows to the soul,
but you always put down the shutters,
closed them tight when you smiled
and told me it was normal;
I believed it.

Blaring sirens and flashing lights.

Make it hard to concentrate.

On the traintrack.

There are multiple paths.

I must decide which I go down today.

Tomorrow, again and again.

The road is covered in a thin layer of rain.

Making it slippery.

A dangerous ‘venture.

The horns blare louder.

The lights blur my vision.

If I can’t take a path.

I should make one on my own.

The train is coming.

The end is in sight.

And I jump down onto the tracks.

Dear Diary:
A daunting opening,
and a lost, red leather journal later,
leaves the pen ink sweating
down the page
reminding me how temporary
all my thoughts are
and how every smudge of my fingers
is really just a desperate attempt
to forget what we've become.

Sometimes I think
I have forgotten
how malleable I can be
and how much I want
to mold my body,
like clay,
around you,
soft and vulnerable
pressed against
everything I once stood for;
why must I be so
alone?

He had that sly smile
he liked to give,
almost as if to say,
"Darling, you knew
I had these demons.
Did you really think
I'd fight them all for you
and win?"