sometimes i listen to old voicemails you left me
just to hear your laugh bubble and froth—a tonic
made from nectar and ambrosia.

i do not bother fighting the smile that tugs
insistently at my cheeks every time
my name finds your taste buds—
almost as if it were candy. you savor
the sweetness, leave me lingering
on your tongue.

you say you miss me and i hear an anthem
lifting these lyrics in tandem with the drum
of my heartbeat, palpitating, galloping
like a steed freed on pastures of green,
sprawled out as far as the eye can see.

all the same, these drugs
still **** in the end. i am hooked
on my heroine. i found what i love
and i want it to **** me. let me die high.

dawn's rays peek like a ******
through my blinds, refracting
kaleidoscopic sunlight
through the window pane.
the succulents on the sill
reach out, needy,
craving the kiss
of photosynthesis.
motes of dust float
melancholic. detritus
pirouettes off the ceiling fan—
whispering languidly,
dancing as i stare blankly
at the space in bed
next to me. i'm sick
to death of mourning
every morning, wishing
i didn't wake up.

my nails keep peeling back
from fruitless attempts
at pulling myself
out of the well
i've been drowning in.
slip—six feet under
for every inch gained.

i took the plunge,
forgot my iron lungs
are wrecked with cancer.
drowning, enraptured
by rotten memories.

one moment is bliss,
next thing i know
the floor drops
like a trapdoor
beneath a gallows

and i feel the rope
bite into my throat,
tearing at my vocal cords—
a rabid wolf,
incensed by the scent
of blood and gore.

if only the highs
didn't come
with all the lows.
a rag doll
tossed about
amidst the gale,
a train that's jumped
right off the rails.

we've lost.
now there's no
going back.
we're doomed.

even if you had a single thought
beneath that golden toupée,
i wouldn't pay a penny
to hear you stumble
through a sentence.

you're grasping at straws
as you spew your vitriol,
peddling snake-oil—
a reality TV show host
floundering amidst the shipwreck
of a failed state.

impotent
bottom-feeder,
you have no power.
you're digging a deeper grave
with every single syllable.

another salacious scandal
to bury you alive.
fascist, your days
are numbered.
no pasaran.

we will rise like lions
after slumber,
unvanquishable.
you're bound to lose.
cower, racist coward.
if only your ignorance
would die with you.
your days are numbered.

anxiety guillotine, hanging
from a thread, suspended above
my sunburnt neck. i'm utterly spent.
another day, back bent in the stocks,
latched in for the Kafka-esque:

carnivalesque body-horror.
shovel white-hot daggers
beneath finger-nail keratin.
bite my tongue off with police-tape teeth.
sadist, savor my godless screams.

drawn and quartered. send my limbs
to the map's furthest corners.
horseflies' aborted eggs
nest amidst maggot-infested
intestines, dangerously dangling.

turn my frown upside down.
stick a razor-blade
in my mouth
and pull 'till i grin
like chelsea.

interned within an unmarked grave,
save for the cairn made from the same stones
i flung myself upon from a great height. a wave
dashed against the rocks, endlessly rebuffed—
the sea's clairvoyance couldn't budge the boulder.

father time's wispy white beard
drifts like cumulus clouds over
his work desk. with a bony finger
he adjusts the half-moon glasses
on the bridge of his nose,
an absent-minded gesture—
this blind clockmaker
hasn't seen in years.

the gadget fidgets, plied
by his callous-tipped fingers.
over the radio, a jazz duo
croon a somber tune.
the old man wipes beads
of sweat from his brow
with the back of a hand,
then connects two wires.

sparks sizzle in the dim light
of the workshop, cascading
comet-tails in brilliant plumes,
filling the room with hues
of phosphorescent blue.
once more, he'll try in vain
to compartmentalize
spacetime.

black and blue,
adorned
by ugly welts
and purple bruises
the naked eye
cannot perceive.
i keep picking
at invisible scabs,
addicted
to the rush—
the self-hate
a shotgun blast
burying pellets
like tiny graves
in the remnants
of my face.

i grit tombstone teeth
and keep peeling back
sundered-earth skin—
badlands flesh,
bones of scattered stones.
stamina sapped
by anxiety's quicksand
swallowing me whole.
each line of red
remains a white-hot
and unfortunate
reminder i haven’t died
just yet.

i’d be the first to agree:
asking for help
takes courage and strength.
walking this path alone
is the coward’s way.
misery may love
company, but i choose
to stay in solitude.
i may be lonely,
but at least
i have the luxury
of making my own mistakes.