"If they were mine to give you," he began,
"I'd give you that one, so we could all have one."

"If they weren't mine to give you," he proceeded,
"I'd recommend that you take that one anyway, so we could all have one."

my wolf is yet a plague of thought,
again I am consumed by loves gentle rock.
the more it shields me from the stench of my rot,
I remember all I once forgot.

no one has caught my heart,
in fact,
I think it's torn apart
so raw, the tragedy of desire
the smoldering fire of blue flames
burn my love into a smoke,
which I inhale with the attempt
to recycle and filter out all the hurt I've caused.

to myself
to others
and for no one.

a romantic dying hard
trying not to escape the truth
while at the same time trying not to create any lies.

she was the first
to act as though
she wanted to be my beretta,
to hold a holster to my thigh
and accept the badge
of partner in crime.

she spoke without shelter.

pool days of marination
in monsters and taurus,
a kiss for pity
as i'd yet to be corrupted,
and she stole some joy
in taking what wasn't hers.

she was bigger than me.

she showed me
how shattered touch screens
can look like dried petals,
but cut like cold *******,
and when you're in a field of dandelions
how they come in handy.

she wrote the book on flagellation.

she promised it was all for me;
calloused fingertips from
loving me with lighter fluid,
scratches for feral adoration,
and the damocles' above my head
or rather hers, and hers to drop on a whim.

she wrote a chapter on manipulation.

i wasn't ready the first time
she pushed passed denim
and plaid as easily
as she waived my concern,
nor the second --
nor the third.

she had daddy issues.

i still didn't know
how tampons worked,
or vaginas for that matter,
and so to be forcefully
and viscerally introduced to both
behind a tree in Henessey
****** up my brain a little.

she called it "mad week."

ear bud cables
became garrotes
around my neck
in the suspended
movement of a pulse
through my aorta;
and as every day with her,
i felt she crossed a line,
and as every day before,
i never called foul.

when made a designated drinker
for a designated driver.

when stomaching stale pabst
and rationed sweet cider.

when frat boys fulfill
stereotypical homophobia.

when twenty grade A reds
can't last me longer than a dream.

when old man nightclub and triple kills
usurp the crown of moderation.

when you fall asleep
with so much in your blood to spill
like beans,
or milk not worthy of tears,

and i keep a loom in my heart
where i weave a string of everyone
[with myself]
and every fray in warp or weft
is mimicked by the splinters
shuttled to my hand.

mornings are better
when wrapped up
in strawberry kiwi
paper and burned.
-
like gene wilder
and roald dahl
with lickable wallpaper
cut up into skins.
-
a mile took more
effort than i thought,
and i'd rather replace
the tar in my lungs
with love,
but no one
likes to shotgun anymore,
and the man i've written
so much about
has pulled a move
more fitting me
than him,
-

I crossed my legs on the walkway's bench,
with stress streaming down my cheeks
splashing into puddles of dark remorse
of a mistake I should have never chosen.
I made my own silent ultimatum,
and your anger and sadness, both,
show that my ultimatum is pointless,
just as much as my love and care.
The river running swift seems able to carry me
to my final moments, and I'm almost willing,
and the rocks that divide the river
probably can also to me.
The only thing that allows my knees to bend,
and the only thing that allows my body to rise,
time and time again, with the current of your waters
knocking me backwards into a frenzied sea of despair,
is the hope that my own life can extend to
improve the lives of my children, my loves,
and in this way only, do I get the feeling
that maybe there's something worth living for.
I'm done feeling sorry for everything I do,
I'm done feeling that I'm just one big mistake,
I'm done feeling like it's my fault that everyone is sitting on a park bench,
with their heads tucked neatly into the palms of their hands,
and the only sound other than the killer water,
is the rapid inhale of marijuana,
and the rapid exhale of sorrow.