Late Night Thoughts

You think the sadness leaves. It doesn’t. 

When I first met you, I said you were my Prozac with yet unknown side effects. Well I know what those side effects are now. First, that its efficacy is short-lived, and yet my body has grown so accustomed to it I cannot live without it anymore. Second, like most drugs, there is a period of complete and utter bliss, but then comes a crash that is so violent, it is something singularly spectacular to behold. 

These black, viscous, septic thoughts well up in my blood. These cancerous, virulent feelings course through my lymph. I’m trapped in a Sartre-ian limbo. Death says, you are far too contaminated, far too defiled for my kingdom. 

This sadness is inherent in me, in my mother’s blood, and her mother’s. This sadness caresses me, drowns me, buries me. I am the darkness that overwhelms, I am the darkness molten.

this familiar void again.
an abysmal, gaping hole of longing and solitude.

your absence is deafening.

the first crack, pt 1

to you
promises are just frantic, desperate nothings;
whisperings meant to be forgotten,
self-destructive words meant to be broken.

you're a gaping hole of despair in the center of my being.
nothing ever hurt like you. 

être, ou ne pas être

i don't feel human.
i don't feel human.
i don't feel human.
this body does not feel whole
this emptiness does not subside,
but aches and aches from my stomach;
shoots into the tips of my fingers,
the soles of my feet,
the thin of my scalp.

my lips are still swollen from the ashes of your kiss. 

5 months

i’ve forgotten you, you’re a ghost, i’ve forgotten you.

you hurt too much, you

take too much. i can’t breathe. i can’t sleep.

i think i’m barely existing.

you’re a gunshot wound; and one day

i will bleed to death. 

 

“I am not always thinking sweetly of you. I am thinking angrily or indignantly or sulkily, quite often, but I am never not thinking of you. More often than not I am just worried about you, concerned and distressed about my baby lamb being tired or unhappy–and of course often it is with mad, mad passion and sometimes it is naughty, sometimes, only sometimes is it dirty or even sadistic. You are all over me, in sorrow or in joy, all of the time – Oh yes in drunkenness too, in conversation, in work, with every breath and heart-beat.” 

 

—	Laurence Olivier, from a letter to Vivien Leigh

and we're back to hell

The fleeting touches, the lingering kisses... It all seems so far away now; as if it was all just a long, beautiful dream. Did I really fall asleep in your arms those nights? Now that I'm thousands of miles away from you, it all seemed so surreal.

But it must've happened. Otherwise I wouldn't feel so empty right now, alone in my room, crying for the hundredth time since I left you two days ago. I wouldn't feel as if there is a gaping wound in my chest, aching to be whole again. I can never fathom how we can be so forcefully and helplessly separated when we love each other as we do. How is it possible that there is nothing to be done? I hate it. I hate not being close to you, I hate not being able to touch you when I want to, I hate that you're not here to kiss and hug me when I'm weeping my eyes out.

I don't know how I'm going to get through this this time.

untitled

To be wrapped in you again,

To be able to breathe the same air

You breathe.

I can touch you with my hands.

My lips cannot stop kissing you.

The world is drunken and spinning.

And so are we.

possessions

kiss the ellipsis that hangs on the edge

of my lips.

swallow the universe

in my mouth.

your hands are soft around my neck

and I know that

you are mine.

you are mine, you are mine, you are mine.