oh my beautiful,
so cramped up inside.
please don't cry.

I am not my words.

I am my behavior,
I am my actions.
My decisions.

I am not these words.
The person I appear to be
to you, dear reader,
would be a complete stranger
to my family.

The me that is seen by a lover
would be an unknown to my friends.

I am not these words,
for there is no true me.
There are only the different shapes I take
to more effectively make
my way through life.

I change in the blink
of your eye.
Don't you recognize me?
Look again.
How about now?

When I was sure she was asleep I
slithered my way out of the sheets
like the snake I am.
I stood and gazed upon her
as she dozed apparently
safe and sound.

When I was dressed I stepped
into the hall and flicked the
light switch.

Gathering my toothbrush and
things, I turned and went back
to the bedroom, where she
was sitting up straight and
just staring at me as I
entered.

I hesitated when I met her
eyes, seeing the questions
she was unable to hide.

But she didn't say a word,
just arched her brows and
watched me.
I felt her vision track my
movements as I went and
packed undergarments.

When I was wearing my
bags and ready to leave
I hesitated in the doorway.
She hadn't moved, but when
I looked back she said to me:
Turn the lights out before you go.

Meeting her sight was
like being alight with
emotional fire.

So I hit the switch as
I tromped down the
steps,
and ventured out onto
the front porch and into
the dark.

I was sound asleep and
lost inside of a particularly
lovely dream when a rustling
noise stirred me from my
repose. I rolled over in bed
and reached for her head
as the lights in the hallway
flicked on.

Her pillow was empty but
still warm, and when my eyes
adjusted to the dim I could
see her shadow stretching
from the bathroom.

I sat up in bed and felt my
heart sinking somewhere
down by my navel when
she walked back in the room,
stopping when she saw
me sitting up.
I didn't say anything.
I knew what was going on,
and I told her that I knew
by raising my eyebrows and
looking deeply into her eyes.

She teared up, and wiped
it away. Then broke our
silent conversation off by
looking away and packing
her clothes into bags. I
still said nothing, but just
watched her pace back and
forth about the room,
gathering random possessions.

She turned at the doorway
and started to say something
but I wasn't listening. She was
already gone in my mind,
so I just got up and turned
the lights off.

I layed back down when
I heard the car start outside,
and closed my eyes to the
dwindling headlights.

I got in late and she was there in the foyer waiting.
So I said Hey.

Hi.

Listen, I've been wanting to talk...
But that's when she cut me off.
So you're leaving me again, aren't you?

It was like she took the words right out of my mouth
and shoved them straight down my throat.

So I just turned back around
and left her standing there,
hoping she wouldn't
have to be alone
for too long.

Because I knew she hated being alone.

"trust..."
she sighed,
"trust is just a product of
your horrendous lies."

I never could find a way
to make her see that
the lies I tell
tell so much about me.

So I kept quiet
and agreed with her
in one last lie.

Saccharine and sanguine
the allure of a pink tummy
I reach out to rub and squish
but then I'm halted.
Daggers for hands,
I'll be bleeding again,
but the brief soft touch
may just be worth it.

You can sprint at the sun
for as long as you want,
but you'll never outrun
your shadows.

I don't love you,
goodnight.

Daisies, tulips, petunias,
orchids, and roses.

The flowers all speak to me.

I perk up my ears
to better hear them
when they whisper
in hushed undertones:

"she loves you not."

When I'm done and
thoroughly drunk,
I always fill the bottle
back up with my ****.
That way,
when tomorrow graces me,
I'll be able to see
exactly what I spent my
hard earned
money on.

Also,
the bathroom is all the way over there
and I gotta ****
right now.

It's a win-win.

Bugged out,
awake all night
and the ocean
is seeping through cracks in my lips.

Now, don't get lost my darling,
Williamsport's forgotten,
don't you lie my darling,
your love is the ocean.

But get your ******* god
out of my ****** face.

A hushed "ouch,"
reddened cheeks.
Blindfolds, safe words,
and bound wrists.
I like my love on a leash.
I love watching you breathe.
I adore the way you beg "please."
I covet this visage,
I could keep you like this
for weeks.
I slip inside,
I dip my pride
into your calm waters
and relish in your warm creek.
I love the way you weep.

I love the way

you weep.

Rivulets of salt
and I don't hear a peep.
No struggle,
no fight left indeed.
Have I gone too far,
my clasp
overpowering
your gasps?

Whatever,
still feels good

to me.

My friends all talk to each other,
sometimes they address me.
Only every now and then though,
and usually to try and sell something.
My friends are voices, voices in the car.
Voices in my apartment,
voices coming from afar.
My friends are always there,
always willing to talk.
My friends don't really know me,
but I know all of them.
I know them well,
they share everything.
My friends are the voices,
I listen to them so that
I don't have to listen
to myself.

I'd break all of my fingers
before ever quitting
writing about you.

With each word written
I'm ripping out the stitches
so that I may never heal.

Dear reader,
beloved consumer of my words.
I want you to hate me.

Do you resent me
for such a hang up?
What am I supposed to do?
Oftentimes I'm torn,
frayed and tattered
along my edges,
trying to dance between
what is right
and what I like.
The stretch of space
between those two
have only grown more vast
with age.
Sprawling wastes fills that void,
wider and wider and
I'm always left reeling from my choice.
Indecision is the ghoul
that haunts my soul,
telling me to
avoid these feelings all told.
For when I do decide,
I can't seem to pick right
and I'm always left
reading the bones.

and so are you

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Tongues tied and covered in ink,
choking on the ashes of thought.

Mindfires burning eternally
so we all write it all out.

writing is dead
just like you

so I'm giving up
because thats what
I do

best

I think,
therefore I am
thinking.

...At least I think I am...

I slip into my coat
Of coarse surface rust,
I'm pitted.
I stand with a squeak and a rattle,
And with a sigh I stride
Toward the sodden gray sky
Peeking at me through the slats
In the yellow venetian blinds.
With a wavering hand
I tug on the strings
And turn round in wonder
At my various things.
A kettle, a pan, a jar of bacon grease,
Dry pens, a magnet, some broken porcelain,
A stain on the carpet, a stain in my skin,
Where did this **** all come from?
When did it all begin?
Did I have an intention,
Did I have even an ounce
Of certainty?

jizzy **** and yellowed teeth
smiling up at me
as dripping, I stand,
a man set free

She reaches behind her
and spreads everything,
her head presses into the comforter.
Duvet? Comforter? It's argyle,
whatever you wanna call it.
Green and light teal, the colors
of the blanket and pillows
match the curtains
hanging in the unfocused
background.
I turn the volume down
as she moans through
the initial insertion.
That's my favorite part.
The rhythmic slapping
of flesh coming together
begins like the beat of
some primal, animalistic drum.
I notice the furnishings are
seldom, a single dresser
with a large mirror
is the only thing I can see.
It has a light finish on it.
Interesting.
I would've gone with a dark walnut,
or maybe a mahogany.
Is dark wood furniture out of style?
I look around my room,
at the dark stained wood desk
that my computer sits on.
My **** isn't even hard anymore.
*** slowly dribbles out as I finish,
mostly unsatisfied.
Unsatisfied with my paltry velocity,
and further unsatisfied with my
terrible sense of interior decoration.
Oh well, I'll go again in an hour.
Maybe I'll get some ideas
for my kitchen.

I have time
I have shelter
I have food and money
I have love
I have hate
I have so much nothing

I have nothing
I have vast collections of nothing
I have nothing stacked to the celing
I have nothing draped upon my body
I have nothing in my heart and mind
I have an immeasureable wealth of nothing
I have nothing in my eyes
I have nothing

I have so much nothing

I wonder if they ask her
about the bruises around her neck.
The ones just under the line of her jaw,
dark smudges of broken blood vessels
eerily resembling the shape of my hands.

I wonder if they notice
the way she stepped softly and wide
for days after I took her inside
of the tent last weekend
on that one rainy night.

I ponder if they see
the peculiar way she looks at me
or the lights in her eyes
when I say that she's
all mine.

Ice cream for breakfast
now that Mom's dead.
All my pants are napkins
now that Mom's dead.
Stay up as late as I want
now that Mom's dead.

Nah, can't do it.
She's gone on the outside,
but I can still hear the echos of her voice
on the inside.

The louder she gets
the more I know
I'm ******* up.

My guilt is a reminder
of what's a good or bad decision.

My guilt is my mother
slapping the back of my head
from the grave.

My sense of self worth,
my sense of what's right and wrong?
That's my mother saying she loves me
from the great beyond.

A leaf here,
roots there,
bloom comes every year
bringing with it
the flowers of new dawn.

Reach for the sun,
ye of old mind,
growth comes slowly
but consistanly
throughout our lives.

When comes frost
riding on autumn winds,
shake off your old leaves
without chagrin,
let growth begin again.

...

The guilt comes and goes
It's starts with love
And fades as it grows
The roots of a wicked tree
Buried in the snow
Siphon bits of joy
From deep down below
It always starts with love
The guilt comes and grows
Like the waves of an ocean
That everybody knows

I don't need this,
it's all refuse
and I refuse
to keep it any longer.

All my beloved,
all my collected
and cherished.
They're heavy
with sentiment,
burdened with
memory.

Artifacts of my past
that I cling to,
like plastic wrap.

Take all of me,
every scrap and
every piece and
send me home
to waste management.

Free my thoughts
from the chains
of remembrance,
so that I may sing again.

Girl, you're never more beautiful
than when you're crying.

Your edges are dithering,
contaminated with snow.

I can see through
you.

I'm losing something here,
as the days slink by.

I don't even feel
like myself,

not anymore.
Not now,
not here
in this paltry persistence.

Your edges are gaussian,
furred and blurred.

I can see through you.

It's just what
I've been looking for.
It's just what's right.

You'll fade and
I'll hate, all
over again. All
over again. All
over and
over again.

My eyes ain't
what they once were, sure, but
I can't see you
at all anymore.

Not because I'm blind,
you just happen to
tinct.
I'm not blind, you just
happen to
translucere,
one day you're just
gone.

I swear yesterday
You were right here.

You've darkled, and turned gossamer.
You pretty, pretty veil.
These days I guess that
I just don't see too well.

I, but a blessed lamb,
but aren't we all?
Sent forth dithering
into the gaping maw of life
as a sacrifice to
uh,
the um....
What's that word
that means
doing something
for the knowledge of everyone?
Whatever,
family dies,
and life goes on.
So yeah.
**** is funny.

Our shadows played
on the bedroom wall,
rhythmically knotting together
as sweat began to fall.

Come came,
puddles on skin.
I exclaimed.

Catching my breath,
her head to my chest,
I sighed and I squeezed
just when she said:
"Don't go falling in love with me."

I didn't say much,
maybe just squeezed a bit more,
and she spoke up again:
"Ah... I can't stop you, of course."

It's selfish
and it's cruel,
to tell you
that I'm thinking about you.

So I'll just go to bed.

Quietly and alone.

When I'm swollen and pulsing,
the roundish spot on your hip,
your skin under my fingers,
my tongue between your lips,
light from the setting sun
spread across our tangled limbs,
bits of lavender I keep finding,
your perky peaks beneath the sheets,
my tender remnants in your hands,
the congruent mixture we make
on those certain kind of days.

Paint me in your purples and pink,
and I'll soak it in.