One Two Timers

The emptiness is vast. Seven days I've been home, seven chances to be alone. Even surrounded, in a flurry of snipping scissors, the lines are drawn in heavy definitive ink. Like someone killed a squid to get the point across.

I want to say it's been a month, but it hasn't. It's been longer, optical illusion like. Yet I still can't seem to sync back up. Your feet keep rhythm better than my headphones...the sound distance drowns out all that positive bullshit talk that hippies burn to keep warm. Someone forgot their goji berries this morning.

What a fucking year.

I'm so tired of being along. Even worse I hate people. I hate interacting. I hate this fucking cycle.

But I can't hate him.

Even as my heart breaks. There was no time to prepare. No choice. Adapt or die.

It's hard to tell someone what you want when they're telling you what they need.

Mirror Mirror on the wall....what the fuck do I do now.

these places

In the land I dream
we play games

flowers at war
shock absorbing

demons howl in blurry tumbles
in bloody thickets I roam

blindly burning
silently watching

My night shadow creeps through deep jungle
sleeps with one eye open

fearless and frozen
cliff dive both dead and alive

we all float here
like a waterbed of souls

blankets of black rubber
and violent shaking

slides of fire in lands forbidden
oh what a lovely body

ultimate adventure
looser losses all

battle Royal begins
but ends with morning's call

emotional asphyxiation

If, in parallel universes, there are other living versions of myself, I wonder what hell is being raised for me to get so incredibly dragged down. Like a long spiraling descent, similar to the blackness that blankets you when you're about pass out from asphyxiation.

I feel ridiculous, and I want a fucking cigarette.

Boy was I stupid. Putting my heart right out there as a carrot for the wicked, unable in my own mind to believe that somewhere lurking in love was utter looming disaster; the ticking time bomb like a blood clot on a kamikazi mission for my heart. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Now I'm wading thick in it, enemy mission accomplished, the porcupine spine that digs in deeper, poisoning my soul.

It steams when I exhale.

And suddenly I am angry like wild fire, violent when my eyes are closed. Keep quite so nobody knows.

July was supposed to be a blessed release from the destruction of June, but all I've found are these hateful weeds sprouting, the aftermath of severance. Sewing the wound closed, the stitches burn. Grit my  teeth against gaping gums, adding a physical dynamic of pain, pulling teeth, and the constant taste of blood in my mouth.

Dark and disturbed indeed. If this is going to be the place I live in, I'm going to ride the fucking monster till it's bones break, skin grinding against cement like a cheese grater. Fuck you.

I'm going to crawl out of this garbage dump of souls, even if it means leaving you behind. You don't get to tear me down like this again. FUCK YOU.

FUCK YOU and your FUCKING ILLNESS. This is the last time you infect me with this sickness.

I'll kill you before I let you kill me.

Fuck you.

compounding factors

PMS. Stress. Probably lacking on protein. Definitely drunk. Emotionally hungry, running on empty, no returned call. "here for you in every way you need."
I'm absolutely over reacting. It's so strange to observe yourself while you're human.

But there's something so frustrating in reading in an online profile that you're looking for a relationship.

In fact, it really got under my skin. The thick shit that's supposed to protect my heart.

Am I taking it personally? yes.

Should I? ....

perhaps that's not the agreement. well, neither were these feelings.

I've never hated hanging out with my friends till you called me needing to talk, and I couldn't answer because I wasn't alone. 7 minutes was the difference of a window passing.

Have I missed it for your heart?

Are you really looking for a relationship? Whatever the fuck that means to you?

Whatever I mean to you?

Sitting in the dirty dark, thousands of miles away from you, I'm drunk with self-absorbed questions.  Because I can't quite understand...are you advertising that to strangers? And if so...then I either failed or never had a chance in the first place....

So, I guess the real question is...which is it?

20 minutes

It overcame me yesterday.

Under the shade of the trees we first peeked at each other from behind, I just started crying.

Fuuuuck. And again, this morning, prompting a 20 minute bucket load of feelings that are not supposed to be there, warm and fluttering to the surface like lilly pads.

I miss him. The grip your chest and twist your heart kind. And I'm so scared that in the wake of me saying "I love you" outside the swimming perimeter of good bye, there will be nothing but silence when the ripples come back from the other side of the lake.

And silence is stronger than words sometimes. Especially when I'm scared. It stretches times like rubber bands around my breath, pulling me lucid, distilling my being.

So if I have to live inside an hourglass, waiting to fall and be tossed upside down again, why not build sandcastles. Beauty is better when it's days are numbered.

But love? I thought we had an agreement.

bridging the gap

I'm stuck between walking and sleep.

Mumbling.

Dragging my feet heavy with dreams.

Blinking.

Please come back and finish me off.

Touching.

I miss you. These people are intimidating, scents unfamiliar. Sometimes your silence makes the sweat drip louder, so instead I opt to sit still.

Brilliant.

Colors sink their teeth into my eyes, fluttering past dying thoughts, begging for my sanity.

Who needs that shit anyway.

Safety.

Docile pit bulls, marble fountains, jewels. War, bombing, guns, whizzing bullets, man down, family down. Recreation of the murder of the elephant.

Slow-motion.

Blood cracking ruby fingers across charcoal rubbed skin. Running like hair. Falling bodies like gravity.

Rinse.

Repeat.

Release.

Dear Lover

I miss you. If there is a way to emphasize the feeling more than those words, poetry can not do it justice. The thought of seeing you in two days is borderline unreal, as if I am afraid that believing it will come to pass means it will be taken from me.
You terrify me. Perhaps the same way I terrify myself, only my fear of you is strong in the way that it grips my heart, and I am afraid you will let me go. But even now I can almost taste your scent and it flutters in my senses, trapped in a dream trying to remember it's sleeping. Beyond me is this moment when I am in your arms and everything is melting. All sounds. All worries. All thoughts are on hold and there is only you.

You see, this isn't a common occurrence in my life. Or even uncommon. It's rare. And as of late I've been led to question the paths approaching. So I'm asking....do you love me enough to hold on?

Visceral

    

conspire

I've been in Kauai for four weeks now. I left South Carolina a month ago.

I feel amazing. The Demon Angel is dissipating. 

I'm having the longest panic attack of my life.

the shaking circles

I've been pacing back and forth. Trying to control my breathing. Like something's clutching my chest,  cracking me from the inside out.

That's exactly how it feels.

These thoughts I assumed I had conquered long ago, somehow resurrected to taunt me, shaking me in circles searching surfaces, eyes darting, and I can not find what medicine will cure me.

Fuck, even just a band-aid would help.

It's only been a week and here I am, walking on that thin ledge, emotional winds gusting around my ankles. Threatening to take me down if I don't let them into my lungs, permeate my blood, cells and soul.

It's a dead scream, the way that wind howls.

I want to go home before I tear myself to pieces.

Holding my breath, gnawing my bones.

Just let me be alone.

Glorious Torture

My watch beeped uncaringly, alerting me that the time was, in fact, one am.

I stood in my mother's room, motionless, emotions piercing my stomach, holding my breath hostage. An hour had passed and I was still in her room, surrounded, eyes darting as I clutched my wine glass delicately. It was like some sickness that slowly crept from one room to the next, piling up to frame pathways.

Clutter.

Clothes, Christmas wrapping paper, shoes, hangers, papers, papers, self help books (....), written journal entries that had become unbound....film negatives, that upon closer inspection, revealed my beaming 2 year old smile as I sat top my rocking horse, pieces of my history buried between my parent's final divorce agreement and a check my grandmother had written to me over ten years ago for a Christmas present. My heavy eyes watched towering demons laughing all the way to the bank, and I'm sure no ghost living in that room could relate, sure as the skeletons chilling in the closet sunned themselves every day, strewn across the floor in front of the adjacent window.

I held onto a door nob, stretching my right leg over a pile of storage boxes and nameless objects, struggling to find footing that would not betray me as I made my way across her abandoned room. Like swimming through your open ocean past as a cold under currant churns some distant storm that one day will come for you.

I keep surprising myself...even in this moment, sleep starved laying on a mattress on the floor next to my mother, who has slept on the couch for the past 20 years. "Don't turn off the television, it's my friend...it keeps me company while I sleep."

And here I find myself wandering through this house, pretending to be mature, fooling some audience, feeding on the applause and disbelief...My little brother never told me it was this bad.

Yet somehow....it's like the past doesn't belong to me anymore. It's not about me anymore. My mission here is to help. Whatever that translates to. Shit's about to get real. Is the role of the middle-man only to prepare one for being a leader? Because I realized tonight that the eyes were on me to create the plan, and initiate the change.

This is the path I have cultivated, to be able to facilitate healing crisis.

The membrane of this safety bubble is about to be pierced; suddenly I have found myself carrying a sword of truth and bandage of compassion, tie-dyed with my own blood.

Because if you're going to kill something, it might as well be beautiful.

Drifting

a boat

Give me a boat to climb into. I want to sail into deep dreams, dip my toes in limbo and swim while floating in silence. Chaos has recruited a swarm of gnats so thick even the air is choking and I can no longer see, but the colors are amazing so I sit watching anyway. Maybe I can become a droplet in their mist, a creature living as an illusionary cloud. It hits me that this is already so.

Two more weeks and I'm out. Fucking out. Toying with dropping everything for a month and just roaming, letting the Earth lick my wounds clean while I hide and heal in the folds of the road. Let direction have her way with me. My teeth will surly crack soon if I keep faking this facade, and the masquerade I've been dancing at for years is getting old. Or maybe it's just my knees suddenly pulling my leg, begging for it's bruises and cuts to be kissed. Blood is no substitute for soap, and all I want is the sweet silence to wring my soul out.

Please....I just want some fucking truth.

cracks

i am so tired.

there is a hollow wind named lonely

surging through the cracks in my window.

rain splatters

through the fog of lonely's breath

condensates on the glass

my room is dark

the heater hums downstairs

the air is stale .

i am sitting naked.

clothes could not hide my facade.

i am so tired.

Lonely lays down on my bed and chills the sheets.

killing the last of the warmth that was left for me.

his scent is gone.

sucked away by the greed of time.

tucked behind my door i am hiding.