the beginning of the end, pt 2

1am's are made for a special sort of prayer:
don't leave me, don't leave me, don't leave me
on the floor, bent over your knees, the hot, rolling tears are
libations, an offering, a sacrifice, a tribute to whatever god,
whatever deity, you think is listening. To please please please
stop this pain, stop this hurt.
This hurting and hurting from a depth in your heart that you
didn't know existed to the pit of your stomach,
it makes you want to hurl, it makes you want to scratch your heart out,
it makes you want to stop existing.
What even is this existing that people talk about? It is a body,
thrown into the world, raw and naked, clothed with a billion
emotions, that you pretend you don't have, that you hide from people,
that you deny yourself. You tell yourself it's ok, you tell yourself to not be sad,
you tell yourself you cry too much, you feel too much, you love,
oh, you lovetoo much.
you love, and that is why you're sprawled on the floor, now
3am in the morning, hair a sticky, salty mess,
throat dry, heart in a million pieces, and this poor, battered heart of yours,
you know, will not stop loving too much,
and you will never know how to love without
being consumed.

the beginning of the end, pt 1

This hurt, this damned black,
rotten, pathetic, shameful hurt.

This poor semblance of that resplendent thing
called love.

(Not) The End

And it terrifies me that
it would come to a screeching
halt.

poems of my sins, part 3

Your lips;
Pressing insistently into mine
Sucking on my mouth, on my breath,
On my entire soul,
So that when you left
you tore a part of me with you.

poems of my sins, part 2

Things are whispered in the dead of the night
That can't be said in the day.
I love you
I fucking love you.
But only just tonight.

poems of my sins, part 1

I am shattered.
I am a hollow shell, flesh picked clean
By gulls.
The sound of waves still echo in me,
But I am far from the ocean.
I am far from anything
I had ever known.

"i walked with you once upon a dream"

but fairy tales are

for little girls and you are too old, your soul

too battered for lies like that anymore.

fairy tales are for innocent, virginal girls in 

pink dresses 

and 

diamond crowns

and your eyes are too full of shadows, bones too

full of secrets to pretend

to be pure.

your mouth has tasted too much cum

for the kiss of a prince, and

you will never be able to

conceal the stubble burns etched into your skin

from past lovers.

you cannot un-taste the apple

you have stolen, 

you cannot un-see 

the hell you have glimpsed. 

on relationships

she said i can’t love you anymore

because you drain me.

you’re like a mutated, human-sized

leech feeding on every bit and morsel of me

and you scream whenever i cried salt tears.

i can never understand how

two people who mutually hurt each other

could stay together willingly

but now i see that people will always

hold onto things that they are

familiar with, even though it’s killing them.

and i’m sure those half-burned wounds

on your body would never heal

if you keep latching onto me

because i will never stop crying.

so it would be better if we

stop loving each other

anymore. 

There is always the moment of desperation or utter panic when you realize how confined, how boxed up and exiguous your life is. The idea of the thousands of places you could've seen, the myriad of interesting people you could've talked to and the avalanche of different sensations in different contexts you could've felt but didn't throws you into a transient state of complete and irrefutable devastation so mind-blowing that you would've denied that you ever lived at all.

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.