i always end up in a different place
that's what happens when you use no maps, you see:
you stumble from point A to point E
but what happened inbetween?

or maybe you took a shortcut to the desperation,
skipped all the cutting, cut all the skipping
maintained a perfect profile of a perfect you because you went from
0 to 60 in half as many seconds
and no one could even tell that while you were discussing derivatives
you were suggesting solutions
that had nothing to do with calculus.

or maybe you intentionally got everyone lost,
headed straight for the marshes, marched straight for the heading
reading: YOU ARE HERE
and here was somewhere where, yes, they could see basic outlines
but no one could even tell that while you showed them an outline
you were writing a novel
that had nothing to do with words

or maybe you intentionally made words a mystery,
described things in a language that only you could read,
wrapped them in metaphors until they made no sense to
anyone else.
and no one could even tell that while you made your words flowery,
you were writing a poem
that had nothing to do with living,
and something to do with dying,
and everything to do with killing
until you were finally forced to tell everyone (and really, weren't you
avoiding telling yourself?)
until you were finally forced to write the words
directly, as they really were, the
bare
blunt
naked
truth:

You want to die

he told me that my ideas were stronger than my voice
and the metal frame shudders, threatening
to fall apart once and
for all.

look!
how rusted are the bolts, the washers nonexistent
with every movement, a creak and a groan and then
another bolt lost

she told me what they always say:
i would't if i didn't want to
unless, of course, you felt you had to
don't you see?
carefully manipulated by one
such as me

he told me there was no point in it,
in penning down words and phrases
of sifting through verbage to find what to say
because even if
even if someone listened (no one hears a thing),
it reads as
empty

so i wanted to try once more,
with feeling.

cesspool of fat and numbers
of mathematical equations you could never solve because
for all your love (obsession) with variables,
you were never smart enough
to understand them.

in the back of the room you coagulate,
broken formulas and broken
you

you're an idiot to believe
And a heartless ******* to conceive
Or rather to ignore
What happens, thinking
About repeating
Coward.
Your troubles mean nothing.
There's not a **** thing wrong with you so
stop.

i'm a liar.
it's in my bones, in the dust on this floor, in the wind:
all the truths i never told;
in truth, i don't know where to begin.

shall i begin in crop circles of dust?
in ripped jeans and bruised wrists?
in torn lips, in broken noses, in sprained ankles --
in corpses, rotting from the inside out.

shall i begin in an empty parking lot?
in forced company and silent observations?
in bitten nails, in sleepy thoughts, in crossed ankles --
in statues, frozen from the inside out.

shall i begin where everything will end?
in musty earthen tones and cracking cement?
in rusted metal, in cracking branches, in broken ankles --
in angels, burned from the inside out.

all the truths i never told;
in truth, i don't know where to begin.

i still wait for you in the morning, though I don't see the signs
half in a conversation and half out the door
but you're not coming anytime soon
(or any time at all)

i still reach for the hand that accompanied mine, though I misinterpret
stomach shuffling nervously and a pocket
That seems too inviting.

i still listen to the same song everyday, as if by repeating this small ritual
I'll hold you closer, for longer
I'll keep you until you're really gone.

You're not coming any time soon,
Or any time at all.

i was afraid of you long before you were a nightly apparition,
and i'll be afraid long after
i whisper your full name into my sheets, thinking
that the power of a name can even
resurrect.

the image seared in my head of two people transparent
did not include one that did not breathe.