It's 1am And I still can't sleep Of course Of course he has your birthday It's fitting actually The two pieces of my heart stuffing their souls inside compact bodies On the same day of the year. Oh but the pain is fresher now, Oozing from me uncontrollably Like padding from an old teddy bear. Put me back together, won't you No you won't It would be so easy But you won't Now this one too I have to battle Start from the scratch And he won't know what he's done while he's doing it Twisting the same knife That killed me four years prior It could be so easy Such an easy fix But not to be.

my heart is breaking and i don't know why. i never had you, i never even had the dream of you, i wouldn't let myself. but i am still shattered inside and out mutilated to the point of no return and i point the finger back at me. i feel older now, not wiser, not more knowledgeable about anything really, I knew more a year ago, I read Rinauld and studied Degas and could formulate hypothesis and ponder faust and freud, but suddenly I am speechless devoid of even the tiniest thing to say. i wish i could tell you something interesting, something that would put fire back in your eyes and make me feel home again, but i am empty. i wonder how long this waiting will take, how long until i am no longer the me that lives in you. how long until my ghost is saved to the light. i only see dark.

When we meet, down the road somewhere

"happy to see you" i will say, you older but not wiser, your gray hair and worry lines more prominent now. my eyes study you, searching for all of the differences between then and now that have settled themselves into the pores of your face and body, and i wonder why things get older with age, why time whittles us away to the bone, when we have outgrown our purpose. then you say i am the single exception, preserved in time as though locked air-tight in a jar and sitting on someone's shelf. and i smile but i know that that is not the truth but a half truth; because i am younger than you but i chip away, too. and it's really too bad isn't it this constant killing of our flesh so that we are almost out of time before we realize the thing we came to do, the thing we simply must accomplish before fate knocks the wind out of us and the souls complain loudly, "why is there no more time? where did it all go? can i have more?" and that would be nice, only the answer is almost always no, their rejected dreams will dwindle in their ever after and that's just the way it is. the lesson, they say, they being the wiser souls, the souls that would know better could they have had extended their allotments, is to capture it fast, your purpose, to seize it and taste it and swallow and then expel your raison d'etre like waste into a toilet, before it's gone, before it gets too lat

dracula's damnation

your apparition is my parasite
gnawing at me relentlessly
until i am but wholly consumed,
careful
to leave just enough for the new day.
i have walked down roads with you,
fabricated discussions with you,
felt your phantom presence
in the murmurings of my heartbeat;
my needles still spin though the yarn has long since run out.
help.
i am a far worse creature than you ghost,
far more frightening then any demon,
with skin and features and human composition.
peel back the layers and no blood will gush forth
i am conscious only in front of the bathroom mirror
comforted with illusions of depth.

adam's eve part deux

we fall from grace
south-bound
but if we fall we fall
one palm to another
just like we promised;
my insides are no longer mine
you are my gravity
and i am

d
o
w
n

unearthed in my design is my damnation;
my garden follows me,
my garden is you.

end of world

my mechanical heart pumps screws.
i hear them churn
in my veins, the sound splitting through
the interior of my eardrums
so that i am deaf to all but it.
i don't feel cold. they always said i would feel it but i don't.
just one eternal season of stillness.
solitude.
not your ordinary loneliness, the obit should say
if we were really being honest.
it was a case of singular loneliness,
the particular absence of you.

no method to my madness

i got mad because you got mad
because i wanted to talk to everyone else, it seems,
everyone but you,
and now i'm madder than mad
because all i want to do is talk to you
-isn't that funny?
i can't contain all of my emotions
my body is too compact,
and oh, I do love you,
I do I do want to speak with you only you
all the time every second you and just you
but i want it because i love you and i want you to want it
because i love you not because
you're just secretly screwed up
and selfish.
i want you
but i want you to want me too
even when i act unwantable.
and i'm sorry for yelling
and i'm sorry for crying
but you, you should be sorry
but you're not
and you won't be.
that's fine
i'm sorry.