I hope,
That one day my loneliness won’t be the death of me.
That my loneliness will spur into something to live for,
Something great enough to die for.

I’m watching my world fall apart,
And the pieces are falling between my fingers,
Like loose grains sand.
Feels like all I can do is stare blankly.  

My loneliness is no longer my fault,
But simply a condition of existence.
I’m not sure if I’m thoughtful,
Or just empty

The flesh, the flesh,
it's always the flesh.

I sometimes wish I would have
given up
just to see how much
you'd try to take.

It's all too much to handle;
the tangible and intangible
taunt and mock me
and the vibrations of the room shine through
this lowly, softened flesh of mine
as if to punish my existence.

"It's not love."

Okay, sure,
so suppose I were to concede.
Then you're positing that
more than half the love I've ever received
has always and forever been null.

Memory loss;
I know you're serious,
but every time you try to speak to me
I'm dropping words and sounds
like an imaginary hot potato,
thrown to me by a very rude child
who thinks making me lunge a thought
away from me counts as being safe.

I know you said something,
sounded like white noise,
sounded like the conversation
I think we're having right now,
I'm behind five sentences,
or maybe five minutes,
something there sounds about right.

Keep speaking, I can only hope to catch up,
this constant amnesia is aching
and my head is in a fog,
but I know you're serious
and you said something, something...
memory loss.

You held back with so much tension,
every time you laid a finger upon my skin,
and I never realized how much
you must've been fighting
your compulsions
to break through me.

Soft lips, the absence,
cold hands touching a boiling ***,
all of it overwhelming.

Lisps, nothing but blurred
s's and slurred whispers
of reassurance and love.
So much blind love, so much
lying, so much forgetting,
so much resting in the
space between the absence.

I loved you once, then I
forgot, and loved you again,
and forgot, and loved you
again in memory, I have forgotten.

The absences are wavering;
they teeter like a fresh vase on the edge
near an unruly cat,
nothing tethering the events
of the slurred words from
soft LIsPS, but the
love almost did.

So I think.

The man I loved is dead and gone
and rest before me, a carcass;
his shaky hands and shaky breaths
are almost fully silenced.

I don't recognize that sound of his,
unusual and discordant,
those mumbled songs and deepened voice
have surely lost its purpose.

Say it's you one last time,
suspend all disbeliefs;
with open arms and inviting eyes,
tell me all that you've repented.

Salted, flimsy orange rinds,
bittered instead of sweetened:
these are all I eat nowadays.

Crystalline textures coat my insides,
my blood pressure’s at an all-time high,
and my tensions are shooting through the roof.
By god, I’m so naïve,
So untouched by anything other than this,
it seems unlikely
that I would taste such saccharine things,
I’d be much more inclined to shrivel up my insides,
dehydrate all my limbs and pack them
like raw meat in a harsh winter.

I feel useless again.

Haven't you heard
that breaking and entering is an offense
and that maybe every attempt
you make to barge into me,
every door you bust open,
every single step forward
into my soul, my energy,
against my will, is trespassing,
and I'll be ******
if you think I won't
take care of a wiley trespasser
like you.