#codependence
I took a dove to be my friend.
He had the most enchanting eyes
— black as jet, round and bright,
that smouldered with an inner light.
They say to not befriend a dove,
or love a thing so wild and free,
but still, I did,
and pampered him with everything
a feathered friend might need.
I fed him rye and wheat,
nuts and fruit,
and even larvae squirming in the bin,
and when the squirrels stole too much
I’d crow and shoo them off again
— declaring what was just and fair!
One day at dawn,
a hawk came hunting with the sun,
and caught him unawares
below my sill
— right there, so near,
beneath the heartless skies,
the faithless trees,
that bald-faced window
where I frittered at my ease.
I stirred too late
to see his last faint flap,
too late, my fists
came pounding on the glass,
too soon,
I watched his life drain out
— and all the while
that murderous hawk
eyed me with a baleful look,
dared me with a cruel smirk,
curved and sneering as a knife.
Again, I beat upon the glass,
and called up curses
from the lowest hells,
to which that butcher hauled its meat
a little further up the branch,
and ripped and tore my friendship
with a savage joy.
How I hated
— such a hate!
My hate rose up against
that devil
strutting on its ****
And how I loved
those soft round eyes,
that seemed to shine
though deathly still
— how they pierced me,
bored so deep inside,
they tore the sheath
and split the seam
where all my griefs and horrors
lay denied
— there, in quiet cubicles
and ordered rooms,
covered in a deathless sleep.
That night, my lover
lay with me, and longingly
turned out the lamp,
but I stayed her hand,
and sobbing like a child,
told her of my feathered friend.
She consoled me first
with pithy words
and wisdoms kept discarded
in a drawer -
and then at length she sermonised
on nature's whims,
and the balance of all things
— and best to let it go.
And still, she scolded me for being
such the fool as takes a dove
to be his friend.
But when my tears would not
be staunched,
she kissed my face,
and inch by inch,
gave me to her sweetness then,
coaxed me in
with restless sighs
and flashed her eyes
like dancing knives,
and soon began to sing
that lullaby
that haunts the hearts of men
— but all the while,
I watched her shadow
on the wall
swoop and fall
extend its claws
and rip her
limb from limb.
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 3:17 AM UTC
She wakes up every morning
with a frown on her face
as he stumbles from his bed
and into a chair that
he will never get out of-
there is tension in the air
as she downs another
exclaiming, "bottoms up"
when it makes her glass world
shatter
at the rise of a cup
All he can do is watch the pieces
as they become pronounced
while the shift of retreating cats
induces a pitter-patter
and more pictures fade out;
the happy memories
now stained
from her cigarette smoke
to ensure they'll die together,
yet somehow alone
He is cursed with a disease
that has rendered him pitiful
but alcohol doesn't care,
she drinks another swig,
becoming more cyclical
and deems the man’s hindrance
as sinful
Stuttering, he can't escape
a liquid she's drowned him with
by pouring it into her own veins-
maybe it's better this way,
to watch the walls as they cave in
What else can he do
as he slowly degrades
from Parkinson's?
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 4:44 PM UTC
I stand before you
my pieces put together in shapes
that do not cut when you get close
edges turned onto myself
press your lights against my chest
the coloured pieces of my hurt
shine in a mosaic
"you are so fragile, love"
"let me take care of you"
My eyes are closed
and I let myself be swallowed
into your words
they are cold but embracing
possessive and enveloping
Cradled and helpless
my pieces shift for the mold you've made
you tell me my pain is beautiful
and I let you eat my pieces up
until there is no more of me
and there I am, an empty shell
looking to be filled
seeking for the hands
and hoping they give me back
I don't know who I am without you.
Jun 27, 2020
Jun 27, 2020 at 7:48 PM UTC
I met this woman that ruined my life.
I say woman and not girl because she isn't naive;
she knows exactly what she doing and the mayhem she causes.
She's enticing in a way that makes you feel bad about yourself.
The kind of beauty that you wouldn't bring home to mom and dad because it would make them embarrassed for having a son that loved something so evil, it could turn the pope himself in to something made entirely of sin.
She turned best friends into mortal enemies.
Her beauty is chaos,and anything that crosses her path turns into such.
She possesses the strength of allure that ruins your ability to enjoy anything else ever again.
This defining characteristic is what makes her evil because she knows it and thrives off of the destruction left in her wake.
I more than hate her,
I hate myself for ever loving her.
She is the anti-thesis of what it means to be pure of heart.
Her name is ****** and I hope she dies.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
I don’t like you
But I love you.
I can hear you asking me
How can that possibly be?
You either love me
Or you hate me.
But that really isn’t reality.
Your behavior is ******* me.
It’s true, I love you
But, things you do
Are some actions I hate
Quite obnoxious of late;
You carry on badly
And often quite madly.
I don’t want you around then.
Come back when sane again.
The you that I like
Has taken a hike
And left behind a spoiled brat
Who has no idea where it’s at.
You once were sweet
As anyone could meet
Then you fell for your own hype
And I never enjoy that type.
No, I don’t like you
But I do love you
And that makes it really tough
But loving you is not enough
To see you daily
And act all gaily
When I can’t stand what you do.
Because I really don’t like you.
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
The weight of you, bears upon my shoulders
my chest
my soul
I feel you swell within me, bearing down into the swirling darkness.
I want, need, crave
I must stare into the depth of you, and find that evasive piece.
Why can't you be here in more than just body and flesh.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:58 PM UTC
The dirt beneath the edges
was scraped out and scattered.
Your roots were reaching through to the other side.
Growing longer with laughter
we bred trees of humanity
and plums of perfect stories
were whispered in the night.
You sang of loud cities.
Erosion. Circumstance.
I shook beneath the sheets
and you held me till morning.
Now we get hollow.
It’s autumn and I miss the sun.
This fruit has soured the air
but please don’t go yet, I still need you.
The wind is blowing through us.
Creaking. Snapping.
Cold shivers.
I think we’re both gone now.
I think I still miss you.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
I've been thinking a lot about one of the more meaningful and meaningless emotions,
the one they call love.
Is anyone else plagued by the thought that with each new venture
the whole experience feels like a regurgitation of past,
like you're playing the same role with new actors,
the same script, but you expect a different ending?
Even when you know, you know.
You say the same sweet lines, do the same warm actions,
feel the same dark often false pangs of "love".
Can you ever go into love untouched, unjaded, unhaunted by your past?
Your mother, father, lack there of, boyfriends, girlfriends,
lovers had and lovers lost and lovers never found,
you think about them with every move,
you think about who you were, who they were,
how this new you and new they could/should/would be.
Who are you?
When are you yourself?
Will you ever be yourself?
Or are you what they want, what they need, what you want them to see?
Can't we just be?
"I love you."
You're just another you.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 3:28 PM UTC