Let's cut the crap and all that sweet **** — we weren't those kind of people. We weren't made for romance and sappy poetries, weren't made for love songs, and cringey sweet nothings and gazing at the sunrise after camping out for the night on a hill. We were made to hold hands and a few almost-kisses during drinking sessions and forget about it the next day, to smoke and lie down a little bit too close to each other on rooftops and talk about depression and anxiety attacks, and deny everything in the morning. We were made for my unsaid "I miss you too's", that want to escape my lips the moment you say your drunken "I miss you's". We were made to see each other break down in between a pack of cigarettes and two bottles of local ***. We were more like two ****** up souls recognizing each other; more like two faultlines causing an earthquake and taking everything down with them, more like the first raindrops to fall apart before a thunderstorm, like two planets out of orbit crashing on each other in a brief but destructive way.

You see, maybe we're just drawn to people similar to us, and maybe, we're just drawn to each other because we're equally messed up. Maybe it was just the strong urge to save the other that borderlined to romance. But I guess being messed up wears people out, and sometimes I find myself wondering who got exhausted first. Where did the talks about "wanting to die together" go? When did the conversations about our saddest secrets cease? What stopped "Man, loving you is a disaster I won't mind being struck by," from coming? Was I too depressive and sad for you? Were my breakdowns suffocating? Did my fuckedupness stop feeling like home and started looking just plain ****** up? When did you start fading away? Why would you do that? Stupid questions.

You should know, it beats the **** out of me to say it, but I was perhaps a little bit desperate for you to stay. Perhaps I got too comfortable with your demons, I almost adopted them as mine. Perhaps the fact that you were willing to give me your ******-up all was comforting. Perhaps I was selfish, and I kinda wanted my darkness to be the only darkness you'll wanna light. Perhaps I miss you and it feels like I'm a chainsmoker on withdrawal from her cigarettes, and what ***** more is that I don't even know if I still cross your mind as that same sad girl you were happy being sad with, as that same sad girl who had always been your destination, and the very same one you apparently stopped coming to. And perhaps, thinking about all of these is *******. We weren't some modern-day knight and damsel. You weren't the guy with the beautiful blue eyes, and I'm not the girl with the blue washed denim they sing about. We were just misfits who made a mess out of the messed ups we already are, as if that isn't already enough. We were just planes thrown in the air, hoping to land, but ending up crashed and burnt. And that's how it always worked for people like us.

I was never worn out by your sadness as much as I was worn out by mine. And clearly, you were my favorite messed up, but, you're just not worth it anymore. And this — this is a just an unpoetic musing about the wrecks that we are, an impulsive attempt of detoxifying you out of my system. This — this is me, disowning your sadness; this is me disowning your demons. So let's just cut the drama and all that sweet **** — we weren't those kind of people. We were the almost-but-not-quite's, the could've-beens, and the never were's. We weren't the kind that bags the happily ever after. We weren't the kind that makes it.

All we are is everything short of lovers. All we're made for is everything short of I love you's. And this is everything short of love.

The only thing I felt today
Was the burn of the suns radiance on my legs,

The only salvation was the light
Cracklings of my last ciggerette.

I watch the letters smolder brown to black.
Blackness flaking off of smokes back.
Dancing off in it's bittersweet serenade
I've succumbed to what exsistance I have made
I only wish to walk in the footsteps
In the last of my happiness.

i followed, until the follower button broke and suddenly
sullenly you're verified hanging out with other pretty things
amenity people, furniture unwrapped from foreign places
making flirty faces with the next boy and the next ones after that
i followed until my patience broke and the pride flooded in
rejection swiftly came within the bucket my heart was found within
just because it feels so good, you knowing my secrets
and stalking my social media like my biggest fan
it doesn't mean a thing if i don't know you at all like i used to

enter stage left: the regret part nine hundred and seven

maybe we're too young to feel something real between us
bottles of liquor on your mini fridge, messing around
with each other's bodies all this reddened afternoon, forgetting
the crisis seems so averted when the asymptotic answer
is just forgetting it exists and you can do way better than
hanging out with me but here we are
i swear i can make it worth something for you to remember
well i'll be the one you'll take home tonight or tomorrow
in that red convertible like a weird chainsmoker song
and i'll forget it's 2017 just for the whole ride.

I realized how much of a stereotype I am.
I’m a writer; an alcoholic; a chainsmoker.
I have crippling existential depression.
I fill my life with lust and longing.

I break my own heart approximately three times a week.
I would be numb if I didn’t, and it’s near impossible to write when you don’t feel.
I forgive easily, because I know that it’s always a mistake to forgive.
You get hurt over and over. You feel.

Being intelligent is the most ungodly curse.
The thinking is too much, and that’s why I drown myself with liquor.
That’s why I am the way I am.
That’s why.

I’m in love with ghosts. Maybe it’s because I long for distant memories.
Maybe it’s because I’m preoccupied with life and death.
Preoccupied with immortality.
Everything is fragile. Our ghosts will haunt us forever.  

In a year, I’ll be in London.
My soul is too drawn there to deny it any longer.
In a year, I’ll still be emptying bottles.
I’ll still be breaking my heart. I’ll still be me.

"The wind is blowing the skirt of an Autumn tree; I flirt with destruction."

Wildfire is afoot,
my lungs fill with the soot
from all the burning bridges;
a slow suffocation, each breath
slipping into the decay.
Things I lost in the fire
permeate the stench of regret.
The unforgotten coats the skin of air
in blankets of smoke and mirrors.
Reflections. | .snoitcelfeR

I Breathe in
deep breaths of memories,
awake in me,
the only remenants
of our love.
It is hard to exhale.
A stubborn heart,
I never know when to let go.
Selfishly I hold on
even amidst the breaking;
the fire consuming everything.
I find myself content
with these 3rd degree burns.
The scars are reminders
that I did more than dream you
but you were really here.

The deliberate suicide
accelerated by my will
to hold onto something
that is already gone;
without you I die a little more inside.
Fade into the nothingness,
a canyon filled with the echo
of the wolf's cry; brokenness.

**** this burden of love,
a torch that burns me alive.
Deadly poison
coursing through my veins,
killing me softly.
I am the chainsmoker.
My lungs are charchoal,
a sacrafice on the alter.
I don't know how to quit you,
give back the feelings you gave me;
the all of you that I have breathed in.

Addiction is madness.
I can feel the unraveling of mind
turning me into a cigarette bud,
into a tray of ashes.
Lost in the fray.
There is a mirror
in the ceiling above me,
haunting reflection
of the things that use to be.
Of the things Ive lost
you are what I desire most
to find again.

I miss belonging
to your lips, your hands, your heart
but I mean nothing to you now.
I am a promise you once made
broken and unkept.
Abandoned.
A heart missing a piece.
A mind without peace.
Lonely like the stretch of sky
after the sun departs
before the moon arrives;
the bareroot of empitness.

I am the star
farthest from the moon,
devastated by an ending come too soon,
but soon to be reborn
the morning star;
one way or another
Ill find my way out of this dark,
the light always does....

Where has the time gone by?
You used to love me
with all your heart.
And now you love me
with only the words
your mouth could afford
to decorate.

Where has the time gone by?
A chainsmoker bids goodbye
to his last cigarette.
And a lover,
oh her lover's love...
has begun to die.
Both flames
eventually lose ignition.
And oh,
where has the love gone by?

There is a man who lives on a corner
Where students live, right next to the practice fields.
He's older and a smoker
He stands on the corner everyday
At a four-way stop
Smoking one after another.
I've seen him in snow, bitter cold and sweltering hot days.
Always smoking
He's out all day it seems,
Watching the cars pass by
Pausing in confusion because they don't know how to obey a stop sign.
I think he must laugh sometimes
Watching the world pass by.
I've seen him for years but I've never known his name
He almost seems like an old friend sometimes
I pass by and see him there nearly every time
I always wonder why
What led him to a life of smoking all the time?
I know the answer I heard it one time,
A veteran who didn't come back alright,
people whisper in shame as they pass by.
But his eyes are a genuine kind.
He smokes, killing time.
I wonder if he's just waiting to die
But still I see him and he brings a smile to mind.
To the man on the corner, smoking all the time.

Joker is confined at Arkham State Hospital--he's an amalgamation of: Nicholson, Ledger, Phoenix.
the essence of these portrayals will fluctuate as would a possession.
the following will be written with all three in mind (no specification)--the reader is free to infer which, there is no incorrect imagining in this case of psychosis.
greener to the pasture hair, cropped short & feathered on the right side--shoulder length scraggles, that stream oil from a receding hairline on the left.
**** pillow-talk padded walls, an experimental recording studio--millenia of disassociative voices.
institutional-white disciple wear, beneath a straitjacket that can be tricked open.
he takes to contemplatively stalking the room's perimeter like John Nash's doppelganger outlining university grounds for sanity.
suddenly sawing himself into boxed halves, the pros & cons of junked minds.
then stands at attention as if absorbing the insults of a commanding officer.
he's unmuzzled, but his iconic makeup was polished off as an immaculate castration.
licking his lips like a perverted lizard, hot for his cold bloodbank--a cleaning product salesman's ear-engulfing grin.
a: Try Again mouth swallowing beanbags.
an overdeveloped feature, circled red over & over like a happy accident--boo!
a cosmetic surgeon's: Project X, a scorned *****'s unevenly applied lipstick spread around by a passionately hateful kiss.
now just a presentable choirboy with a hardon for the whole mass.
a choppy quack rolling into a chainsmoker's weepy guffaw, self-heckling giggles of bozo persistence.
a hung jury of tears snorting & spitting out antecedent laughter--reeled in by a forced seriousness that believes its deadliness.
as comfortable with one-way humor as a malfunctioning parachute, that dead silence that breeds bat symbols.
contrary to the funny wastelands of his surveillance footage, a notoriously unprivate life turning cameras on themselves.
three of a kind, says he without saying--each having explosive dance offs, while cutting into unrelated dances.
the lighting in his room is as changing slides, that look for patterns of behavior,
with a misleadingly stark evidential buildup.
a Joker--that Joker needs a smoke, that Joker stares up at the cameras, motioning to guards.
his eyes are dead set askant, with a backtracking deviance slyer than a meat hook without a carcass.
a drowsy pick-me-up, melting with baby's candy, a cocky knower of inner names.
whites like wet dreams of glory-holes.
a feminine ruefulness that signals overkill before the ****, eyes that victimize rehabilitation.
brass that will be unaccountably drawn to them like Poe's: "The Tale-tale Heart."
a gaurd un-maximizes security enough to slide a cigarette into the Joker's mouth, then removes it.
the Joker looks up & disentangles a plot of smoke--then smiles sheepishly at the gaurd.