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?

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.

Her Dream

Later you told me that you had seen me
through the treeline
Pale, like the moon in the sky
my limbs moving swiftly
You said you called out, caught my gaze
fleeting and furtive
Face quickly turning towards something
you could not see
Who were you then, you asked
that you would run from me?

Doors

It is in so many ways like a flower that is afraid of the sun. What do the innards look like? Are the colors ugly? The risk is too great! I must hide myself, lest the world see the garish truth and the clashing petals. It is in this way that I become a frigid thing, locked away inside many rooms. I pace the floors and I know these tiles so well that my mind begins to believe that I have imagined the ones before them. I can still recall the scent of her perfume. I close that door.
Running, I find that I am lost among many memories, and that another has been stripped from me; no matter how many frames I beat upon, it is gone, gone, gone.