being alone is a funny thing

as i read i
can hear him reciting
bluebird and white-hot agony
boring everyone, even himself

but i’m listening
he makes it easier
to cope with the fact that
i am a Nobody

he wrote it down for me
and for that i am eternally grateful
i want to thank him, buy him a drink
or something

but then i look up
and i remember that he is
a dead man
and, unfortunately,

i am not

I have spilt again
I am sorry, but
These white walls are not helping
These white walls
Have poisoned me
So I turned them red again

Red like the undersides of my eye
Lids, I’m bottled up so they can’t see me and
I can’t see them because
I’d rather see red than
Her brown hair or her blue eyes
Red like the back of my throat

Would I call myself a hero?
Because I like the color red
Because red stings and burns holes
In my sleeves
And the taste is sharp
And it smells like tin

And the sound is almost dead
And it feels just like home
Would I call myself a hero?
Because I break my skin
Now that my heart’s turned blue
What’s next?

“Who are you fighting for?”
I don’t need to say and
You don’t need to know
I
Don’t
Know

I don’t need to say
And you don’t need to know
That at first
I was satisfied
But now
I’m exhausted

I hope my words are new to them
Maybe it’s selfish to wish
I was the only poet
And that if your words make them cry
Mine will break them in two

Machiavellian, I suppose
Subtle aggression through figures and lines
That say so little
Spaces hypnotize them, now I have an army
Maybe it’s unkind of me, a bit territorial

Life imitates art
But maybe it’s just the opposite
Art is animal
Art is bare
And creation is the backbone of survival