i'm trapped inside my own head
bed-ridden, paralyzed with dread
dream sequences, flashbulb memories
keep me from forgetting
everything, anything
that drenches me in cold sweat.

is it too much to ask
to be spared from anxiety attacks?
is it too much to ask
to not be frozen inside flashbacks?

apparently it is
i'm in a state of perpetual fear
i have been asleep for years
i'm screaming from inside
the echo chamber of my mind:
let (let)
me (me)
out (live)

is it too much to want to live?
apparently it is

Coffee is bitter like
stomach acid burns
when bile rises up
from god's laughing throat.

He who woke up the sleepers.
Those who dream in paradise.
Dreaming with unseeing eyes,
serene smiles, bleeding, breathing,
competing for conscious time.

Awake to this stinging feeling, like
teething, skin peeling, ears ringing;
no sound, no silence, ambient fuzz.

Let me live in a dream.
Let my thoughts blur into
one.

i want to be happy
so much that i

push in everything so close
until it squeezes
my lungs
shut.

i pull out the sequins
ripping fabric away
until there is nothing left
but the frame of my heart
uncovered and untouched.

i push away fears
like bad memories
with temporary remedies
lost dreams in my sleep.

i want to be happy
so much that it’s
killing me.

i want to rest where your pupil meets the iris
i want to sleep in the corners of your smile
curling up for a long while
let the scars on your skin be the story i read
every imperfection a footprint in your journey
i want to see heaven beam through your teeth
i'll hear the sunlight in your voice when you sing
sweet nectar coating your timbre

with you around me
i'm content just existing

pressed flowers are still dead flowers,
like dressing up a corpse.
a naive form of taxidermy;
creating beauty from dead things.

daily, i spend several hours
cowering over mortality,
wondering if i, too, will be
stuffed, positioned in motion,
my presence interwoven
in stories and broken words,
scattered like ashes in the ocean.

or, perhaps, i'll only be
a narrative forever at rest,
pressed
between pages of poetry.

yesterday, tomorrow, before and after

i want what i want, but what i want doesn’t matter

trying not to sink into the low places

pouring static sound into the empty spaces

between my ears, behind my eyes, to the bottom of my skull

i want what i want, and i want to be whole.

break the seal:
pull back, twisting the knife.
pull back, words too fast.
pull back like there’s no stains
in the carpet, on the walls, on my skin.
pull back, no shimmer in the eyes.

retreat like dying armies
into shadows, deep unknown;
creatures with sharp teeth
speaking soft words
that wrap around my throat
like unbroken plastic seals.
pull back, pull back, pull back.

my thoughts are shaped like
atom bombs:
bearing faces of angry gods
tearing through the air above.

my thoughts are shaped like
revolver rounds:
their loud, resounding sounds
always make my heart pound.

my thoughts are shaped like
vile things:
describing them makes my eyes sting

so i won't anymore.

light flickers behind her eyes
a spark? a flame? electricity?
would Zeus approve of the
lightning bolts
her eyes seem to sling at me?
if not, will at least
Aphrodite grant me her blessing?

it's in my nature, like a moth,
to be attracted to bright things.
the light brings me closer
i'm aware of proximity
i'd like to think
i'm aware everything.

but yet, the light dims in my hands:
smothering
stifling
my love is suffocating
my need for intimacy
makes it hard to breathe.

i ***** away anything
that's close enough to me.
the smoke clouds the flame
forever gone between us.

i'm sorry.

there's a pit in my stomach, a bottomless hole
where the sadness i swallow goes down to my soul,
where it sings the blues and wears grey hues,
and eats up the bad thoughts until it is full.

this poem doesn't rhyme.
it doesn't have to
to still hold value
but by now you
have realized
that i was lying
about the rhyming.

someone took the narrative
that i was an idiot
and ran with it.

they're stuffing foam in my garden hose
they're burning all my algebra notes
they're stepping on my sand castles
like my effort is one big hassle

maybe it's your problem
that nothing i do makes you happy
maybe it's your problem
that you break beautiful things
maybe, just maybe
re-evaluate the narrative you wrote
some writers can be untrustworthy folks