I run through dialogues
in my mind
as a way to communicate
with someone,
though imaginary as they may be,
my thoughts and feelings
on subjects, of which
I am lost.

"I have no other means,
no friends,
no families,
of which I may defenestrate
these ideas
through the windows of my soul."

"These fires have started
and started to spread
and started to burn my sanity's thread.
My sweater has come off again.
Lying naked in conflagration,
When will I be saved?
When my savior comes,
Sweater undone,
How should I behave?"

I talk to this nobody,
this fool on the hill,
and smile alone
in my empty home.

You let me rub sawdust in your ears.
You let me drip wax on your fingertips.
You let me defenestrate your free time.
You let me run my voice across your lips.
You let me think I can.
It is of my opinion that the basement here smells
of expensive wood varnish
and it reminds me of what you are supposed to be;
an old thought.
A grimy vexation.
A copper colored conundrum,
antiquated and nauseously green.
I hate it when you waste time with me.
You make me feel like we're worthless.
Sitting alone in a stone darkness
with both purple hazes
hanging in the air like rhythmic skeletons
strung up in a celebratory gallows.
I'm happy when I'm with you,
you two-penny *****
of wasted yourself.
I love you.
Now leave.
Out of our lives.
I would be happier if you were out of yourself.
But you knew that.

I know a cedar chest of a hundred years
and you are knees-to-chest inside;
not dead
but breathing through the keyhole
in a white evening gown
with your skin growing tighter against your ribs.
One day I will open the chest
and your blood will flow
and your eyes will open
and your skin will hang more loose
under healthy fat and muscle and life
and you may throw your arms 'round my neck
and I will cry as I love your touch
as you smile with joy
as I take my hand and put it to your chest.
Push.
Down.
Hard.
You will not escape to make me love you.
The latch will close and you will be silent,
breathing through the keyhole,
and I will not mourn.
I will try not to mourn.

You are beautiful,Time.
Why?
You burn heart-shaped marks into the souls of lovers
and whittle them away through yourself
and that is horrendous
yet you change not.
Villain! A pox upon you for a clumsy lout!
You must undress in simmering water for ramen or tea
because you refuse to change until I look away.
You make the voices of a hundred years past
hiss and pop on gramophones
because you didn't feel like sharing 2008's MP3s.
Oh, you wretch,
you curdle milk
and Captain Crunch disapproves.
You make car rides to Washington, DC unbearable.
You masterfully draw out the suspense in waiting rooms,
dangling gender verdicts of newborns over the heads of expectant fathers.
You ****.
You ridiculously unfair goblin.
You murderer.
You toyer of lives.
You are so beautiful.
You make life short so it matters.
This hate is a necessary hate
but so is my love for you.
You will **** me one day.
For that, I loathe every second you give me in your pitiful pity.
I wish I could rip apart every second and return them to the sender
and have them ignite on your doorstep
and burn your house down
and have you cry "I was only doing my job"
as your home smolders to ashes.
But right after I would buy you a nice dinner
and tell you that it's going to be okay
because you made some months of my life matter
and enjoyable and happy.
I might even admit to arson
to make you smile
or grimace.
Time, you toothless wolf.
You spineless snake.
You stringless marionette.
I love you.

Several years have passed,
Since I entered last,
It all went by too fast,
But what is past, is past,

To roll down one's cheek,
Like a little blue streak,
To be all but meek,
About being chique,

To fall in love with a boy,
To tease and be coy,
To be bored out of your mind,
and to play with a toy,

To move and relocate,
The urge to populate,
To quietly suffocate and,
To want to defenestrate,

To tap and to pop,
And cafeteria slop,
Ask about a sad mop,
And to epicly  rock,

To create a playlist,
and to tease balled fists,
To hide amongst swollen mist,
And not to have time on your wrist,

To drop a spork,
and to study a cork,
In order to work,
And to stalk Bjork,

Which brings us to now,
And I don't know how,
With the time I'm allowed,
Through these lines, I quickly plowed,

when i place everything that i am
and ever was and ever will be
into a blender, the terror in my bones
isn't born from pressing the button
but from dumping the contents out
for you to defenestrate.

Enough of us
We have been here for too long a time
Growing fat and disregarding our crime
We ignored our eviction notice
Time has changed us, we have grown hopeless

Our marks on the world have turned into scars
So polluted, we can not see the stars
With waters of black and islands of waste
We brake things simply to get them replaced

Our earth will grow tired of our naivety
Listless in a way so unsavoury
Our landlord will defenestrate us
Too negligent, it’s too late to discuss

We must pack our bags, the reason is clear,
As our Earth has had enough of us here