This Life

This life
for me, is
a simple repetition
Swapping one pain
for another:
endless rings
of ash and flame
as I am reborn
and subsequently
consumed

The depths

My pain was a blade
sharper than any knife
And its sheath
my tongue, which housed it
And the words that
caught, bled, feasted upon
their targets
Also cut away
many small pieces of
myself
This does not excuse
my sins, rather
explains the hunger
that later grew
to devour me

Charades

Tell me, where is the love?
Is it hidden in the pages of our book?
Scattered amongst the tears
or crouched within the shadows of hate?
I can taste it,
the aftertaste of our bitterness.

Is it the mask of our desperation?
Or simply a prelude to the panic?

#;

Hashtag; that moment when you
watch the person you love replace you
Hashtag; that moment when you
realize the biggest mistake was believing in...
Hashtag; that moment when you
believed in yourself and your abilities
Hashtag; that moment when you
felt yourself fall flat in the face of...
Hashtag; that moment when you
looked up at the wall of your own failure
Hashtag; that moment when you
watched your friends march one by one
Hashtag; that moment when you
realized that you don't have any friends
Hashtag; that moment when you
quit your job on an impulse
Hashtag; that moment when you
discovered you have nothing past...
Hashtag; that moment when you
found that you have nothing aside from yourself.

Enigma

I searched for you between the stars
and found myself in the darkest spaces
If the air is hard to breathe here
I have only myself to blame
I found you to be wrapped within a sphere of pure light
perfect, save for a jet black core.

Unfold Me

Be my pink champagne stunner shades
make me see the world in a rose tint
Unfold me like a love letter
and taste of every honey-dipped secret
Weigh me down with heavy lidded eyes
and a pair of soft lips
Teach me to fly with a single touch
be the guiding hands upon my hips

Flames

"Nice and cool out here,"
she drawled
It was still 90 out
the sun barely starting to set
its rays turning the hills the color of blood
I could see a fine sheen of sweat
on her upper lip
where a sardonic smile still lingered
She took a long pull on her cigarette
exhaled, said:
"Not so bad once you get used to it."

Where You Are

You reside within
the sunbeams I cup
against my skin
and the daydreams that blossom
before sleep creeps in
You are in the word
I dare not say
in the very first flight
of a bird
or a haunting melody
I hadn't heard

Weapons Drawn

Your side, my side:
definitive lines in the ground
Fingers crooked in eternal condemnation
every weapon drawn
What should be safe haven
is our own personal war zone
Who threw the first stone?

Flight

One day I will fly
My eyes touch the horizons
and soon, so will I
My wings, though clipped
will grow
And the sun, though eclipsed
still glows

My Own

My own moon
my scattered stars
the bright lights that
make the night less dark
A warmth that does not burn
but finds me
when the fog creeps in

Questions

No, I don't understand it any more than you:
why I turn from the things I want the most,
why I always long to find the source of the smoke,
why beauty inevitably makes me think of ugliness,
why the trusting seem like fools to me but liars even more so,
why I refuse to let certain pains fade away,
why my guilt is not an elephant in the room so much as it is a snake coiled in my lungs,
why I avoid thinking about my own happiness as much as possible,
why I hold so many names in my heart like glistening gemstones,
why I was so willing to fall in love until I began to,
why I have an anger that will not be quieted and cannot be stilled,
why I did not think of death when I was dying.

Hamartia

Ah, my Achille's heel
liquid gold
It goes down so smooth
leaves so little to remember
But there are ugly days
where I try to pull back
and I fall flat
Stale beer and one cigarette
rusty nails inside my head
Loud voices and bright lights
pounding headache
Can't recall my middle name
was it "trouble" or was it "useless"?
I settle on "fuckup" when they ask
Mugshot, moneyshot
It all feels the same
Humiliating
It lands you in the same place
a cold cell, within yourself
I can't blame it
I fall back into it
every day I think of it
and every night I dream of it
Yes, my fatal flaw
It will kill me

Bright Colors

If I've fallen now, at least I can say that my eyes can only
look upwards. But that isn't right. I constantly look down,
and I can perceive unplumbed depths that call to me in voices
sweetened by my own lack of hesitation. I am numb. No -- less
than that -- deadened to sensation to such an extent that I long
for the things that used to cut and bruise and turn my insides
black with their onslaught. I am perhaps a masochist. Or is it
that I simply long for bright bursts of color, and I do not
care if they are the reds of blood and the purples of
congealing sorrows? For happy things: the yellows, the pinks,
and the greens seem so distant, altogether garish
and brazen, that I fear they would disrupt the collage
I've built within myself.

It Is

Drown the
cupid's bow
almond eyes
dark curls
Forget the
one dimple
straight teeth
soft hands
Bury the
hazy night
bright morning
guilty memory

All of You

Slip into your shoes
and I try to
walk, walk, walk
Paint my lips the same
and I try to
talk, talk, talk
I look where you looked
and I try to
see, see, see
But where you are now
I can not
be, be, be

You

Yes, I see you
peeking through your lashes
Yes, I hear you
your lips move and I can
feel you
quiet laughter like
fingers on my spine
I watch you and I think:
I know you
The curve of your cheek
color of your hair
so much like mine
You have a look in your eye
that is hard to define
It says:
Yes, I see you
and
Yes, I hear you
and
I wish I did not know you

The Thought

Can't shake it --
thoughts anchored in my brain
taken refuge under the skin
swimming inside every blood vessel
toxic
Want to hide it --
words are all betrayal
voice dissolving into whispers
easing into soft consonants until
silent

Talk

The silence seems fragile and I don't want it to break
Words that used to tumble from my mouth
like so much steam and heat and necessary substance
are now things I have to search for
Talking seems weightless and empty and without meaning
something I do because the quiet is oppressive
to the world out there
All it does is fill the space around us at the table
or between us in the streets
Most of it is just small talk
and it's getting harder for me to find the right things to say
Half the words that filter in tend to ricochet
dull rocks that make my head ache
day after day after day after day
It's become a tiresome thing at best:
listening and being listened to
Silence would be bliss
and to be silent a thousand times better
I think it is too easily shattered
for me to really hope for

False Skin

The biggest star reflects off of
the most lonely car.
I am not alone.
I sit and watch the parking lot of the motel.
A man walks out
surveys his kingdom.
He is suspicious of me.
I could be fresh meat;
I could also be a bust.
Everyone here wears a false skin.
The trick is discovering the nature of it.
My mother is in a deep sleep
awake, but eyes blurred by
self-induced coma.
I smoke cigarette after cigarette.
The air teases my hair.
Asphalt glistens
and boys who act like men
ask me if I have someone in my life.
I wave them off like flies.
They hover not far off
their distant words like buzzing
in my ears.
Another sound intrudes:
my name.
I unfold myself and follow,
unresisting.
Later I will ask myself
which lies were too practiced
and which truths too forthcoming?
Even I wore a false skin
during the night that came
on the heels of that day.