Reflections on a Long String of Days

A constant tug-of-war(such high

casualties

in a civil war like

this)can

truly be exhausting,leaving

hardly a thing

for this

silly

little

thing

called living.

Guinea Pigs and Lab Rats

if a trial-offered

fully voluntary

closely watched

meticulously monitored

sleep

was a viable option

as an alternative to

the rushing

crushing

devastating

destructive

thoughts

that parade around

this skull like

they fucking own the

joint

how could i ever

say no?

the weight of blood and muscle.

[Backdated to 8 February 2011]

It creeps back into my mind. It finds every crack and every interstice that may (and does) exist. It slithers and slinks so silently, so perfectly, that it could be killing me now, and I'd be none the wiser.

The loss of control is palpable. Fingertips and toes go numb as the glissading vulnerability continually constricts, rendering me useless.

Rationality begins to sound the siren. Warnings and unnamed exclamation points swirl overhead. This isn't safe. Where is the net to catch me when I fall? Did the craftsman lose the fingers needed to weave it? Were his unique modifications replaced by the stainless touch of steel?

Retreat. My god, how I retreat to the safety of the lonely, melancholy brush that has been my shelter for so long. I do not know where else to go. I do not have the strength to escape. The smell of you alone would be cruelest form of torture from so far away.

I must keep myself safe. I must protect the bloody mass that I have slowly been tearing in my hands. But you have defeated every wave of ribcage soldiers I could have rained upon you.

You terrify me with your smile and how it can unravel me so. Curled, hunched, I am paralyzed underneath the weight of who you are and who you have made me: someone willing to love.

there's simply too much.

[Backdated - 18 February 2011]

There's simply too much. The body cannot endure the things through which we make it suffer. Once delicate, fragile, touched as though a petal - turned to weathered appendages that have seen too much, toiled too much, lost too much.

It is just a perfectly haphazard slop of chromosomes and blood, incredibly housing the viscous parts that keep us alive. Nothing more. But we know no other way to show our gratitude for what it does than to abuse it. We inhale carcinogens or imbibe ethanol to deadly degrees, and then marvel at how, one day, the body simply forfeits the game, unwilling to be a contender any longer.

But what else can it do? It has no choice but to relinquish its crown, crushed underneath the debt of this thing we incredulously call Life.

and suddenly i am galvanized into fear

self-confidence offended,

reassurance dissolved.

your tongue, your eyes,

your hands,

chisels to the stone

upon which i've come to

rely.

hundreds of thousands

of minutes spent

building,

protecting,

guarding,

undone in a matter of

moments,

the contact of lips,

the brushing of skin.

you have undone

all that

i have worked so hard

to temper.

they are all such relative terms

proximity is merely measurement

cold hard facts

things that arouse scientists

and others with reason to wear

sterile white coats

an inch a foot a meter

just mortal ways of understanding

here to there

and there to where

but even dung beetles can measure

distance with their frequent

pauses from transporting their

excremental gold

thigh to thigh

elbow to elbow

the measurement is minute

but the distance is gargantuan

hollow hollow

through and through

the wind can still nestle between us

This is the Only Escape

oblivious.

a screaming siren adjacent to ear

would barely grasp my attention.

but even i can see the unadulterated beauty

which pulls like magnets to a compass

in you.

there are others far more perceptive,

with bright eyes full of wonder,

drinking in all they could possibly discover.

you cannot stay blind

forever.

It Cannot Be Left Alone

it must be suppressed

before it will(and it will)

consume.

but how does one unhinge

a jaw and swallow it whole

if one was not fortunate enough

to have been born a snake?

And Then The Synapses Misfired and Things No Longer Make Sense

swarms of sleeping larvae are writhing in this fleshcase, gently reminding that existence continues, even if apparent life does not. sleeping forever, after all, is hardly a punishment. gather up the twilight-haze and tie it with an atropa belladonna bouquet, so innocent and explosive in its deadly deception.

lavender poisons the air as lips whisper unheard words to a far-off ear no one can see. but not even the most powerful of ear trumpets, as far as it will burrow, can amplify the sound.

the toxic mist moves in like a silent stampede, and, much to the terror of the unknowing masses, brings apathy wherever it goes.

The Human Race of Nesting Dolls

We are hauntingly capable of so many things.

Regeneration, compassion, kindness, love, healing, invention, discovery.

Anger, hatred, murder, apathy, disdain, selfishness, greed, pride.

Constantly grappling over Jekyll and Hyde. Can they co-exist in some twisted form of harmony? Or will anger always try to kidnap happiness, covering its head in a burlap sack? Will hatred always try to deceive and turn compassion, willing it to ignore someone in need?

It is no wonder we spend our lives searching, wandering, looking for some semblance of peace.

We are but a collective, chaotic chorus of screaming demands, each trying to be heard above all the rest, each trying to reign supreme.

A Reflection on the Brief History of Us

how many others

have touched the lips of a

lover,

waiting for(expecting)it

all

to

combust?

how many others

have pressed their head to

his chest,

listening for the

(inevitable?)cracking

in

his

heart?

how many others

have had heavy,

overwhelmed lids at

the feeling

of love that

swells

and

billows

from places never

to have existed

before?

how many others

have pressed their fingertips

to their lover's

skin,

electricity and

numbness

the communication between

tingling

appendages?

won't you

let me always be the

other

in your pair?;

hearts or diamonds

or spades or clubs,

whatever suit

you'd prefer.

tug on my hem,

tug on my sleeve,

wrap me up in

everything

you are(intoxicating),

and

please,

don't ever

let me go.

Healing Takes Time

i am a burnt tongue,

its function pointless and evaporated

at the carelessness of its owner.

press me against something, anything;

i will feel it, know that it is there,

but will be powerless to experience it

the way that i should;

be patient.

i am waiting for the day

when my dead and damaged cells

will have all but shed and disappeared

and i will know what it is like

to be complete again.

Graying-Out Process

there's

a strange concoction of

repulsion

and

disgust

as

hollow eyes peer

back to me.

it won't be long

before i am

coughing

the mutated name

i will have acquired,

choking on the

sound

of who i am

turning into,

the pallid cage

of what i was

and what i

should be.

i am the walking dead,

atrocity embodied

of what can happen

when

apathy

goes

unchecked.

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.

Jaws Theme

to stay afloat

in a sea so intent

on letting(demanding that)you drown

is just asking for trouble

for which no one is really

prepared(as if they can).

but kick harder,

won't you?

paddle stronger,

won't you?

tread the water.

stay afloat.

stay alive.

I Am No David

an empty page

is more intimidating

than Goliath,

as it beckons you

to fill it, to satisfy it,

and when your pen

has run out of ink,

and your mind has

run out of thoughts,

what choice do you have

but to

surrender?

Conglomeration of All Things Terrible

at worst, i am nothing more than body parts,

a bone here, a socket there,

tendons and ligaments that have been

strategically

arranged

so that i may walk and move and speak

and think and love and feel

like other homo sapiens.

at best, i am nothing more than a damaged product

of my environment and,

more likely and most importantly,

my own self-destruction.

there is no forgiveness that i can

allow myself.

not when i've got so much to prove.

at least, i am nothing more than a lost soul,

wandering this vast orb to try and find

some kind of meaning

some kind of anything

so that it won't feel like a waste

or like i've just been sucking up space

and air and resources

that could have been used on someone more

deserving.

at most, i am nothing more than who you see before you,

this tracing-paper-cut-out of who i used to be,

with all of the necessary parts

(the lungs and heart and brain and things)

i need to make me whole,

vacant in the places that should be full,

hollow in the parts that should have substance.

at worst at best at least at most.

don't ask me to explain it all.

i haven't got a clue.

My Head is a Balloon, Floating Overhead

They protest and rampage. They tear down trees and shear off the branches, and ram shaven logs into the walls. Claws, sharp as glass, scratch and rip their way through ivory and ebony keratin. Or, at least, they try. When one attempt fails, they find another. When that attempt fails, the increase the explosives and double the gun powder.

Please, quiet down. Have a rest, won't you? Perhaps you'd care for a tall glass of water.

You'll soon be spilled onto this screen through the not-so-clever workings of ten of my best men. They will work tirelessly to release you from this prison.

Don't worry.

You will have your freedom.

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Were My Predecessors

i feel like i'm on the

verge of a tragedy.

rumbling and movement in

my inner-most innards

are my(delirium?)tremors,

warning me to prepare for the quake.

"tie down the good china,

the precious collectables you'd rather

not lose.

keep safe your heart(whatever

may be left).

keep safe your soul.

they are irreplaceable."

how these feet want to run

(as far as the very ends

of the earth).

but something makes me stay.

something tells me not to go.

i don't understand it. i can't explain it.

the weight of this never-ending mind

is more than Atlas could bear.

split me in

ha

lf.

keep one half safe in the china cabinet,

the kind that every home has;

this is the part that could never

dream of leaving.

it cannot exist on its own.

and, please, let the other half go.

let its cowardice and awful inability

to cope with life commandeer.

let it run to where the sea ceases to be,

let it escape from the hell it created for itself.

it is the only resolution.

it is the only answer.

one cannot exist as two separate beings,

relying on a snapping thread

to keep it together.

Vulnerability is Something I Continue to Fear

your hands are

perfect.

big and slender,

strong and agile,

nimble and gentle.

they can embrace mine

and

they can memorize my skin,

and

they do so exquisitely.

it is why i will sometimes

find myself touching them with

my fingertips,

staring at these magnificent creations,

wondering how such supremacy

could be contained in

a set of digits and opposable thumbs.

i admire them for their strength,

and fear them(my god, how

i can tremble)for their power.

please, be careful.

all that i could possibly give

you

rests with them.

they are perfect

to tear me in two,

should their owner advise;

it wouldn't take much, you know.

a simple flick of the wrist

in a well-placed location,

and you would devastate me.

but please, let them find me

in the darkness.

i will risk my heart and life

at the mercy of your hands,

perfection, ten-fold.