I wake up everyday

But I don’t see myself

My soul has left me

I’ve gone astray

I stand here

Hands on the sink

But I can’t see in

The mirror

It’s not clear

From the fog

I try to wipe it

It still doesn’t clear

All of sudden

I disappear like

The fog on the mirror

Do you believe in love?

Not the love I want to believe in.

×∞ Adin

7 June 2020

Three walls,

absent of color,

stained

with earth’s

graffiti paint.

Thoughts,

barred behind

grey matter,

join the voice

of

martyred saints —

as tears,

transcending

lock and key;

one language

of

the soul:

words,

imprisoned,

breaking free

to smooth

a

heart

of

stone.

Afraid. This wasn't always true of me or maybe it was. I was only 15 the first time. I was naive and shy. I never quite knew what to say or do, just fumbling through love. It was exciting, maybe even a little dumb, but I was all in.

Guarded. Although this time love seemed more grounded, I didn't trust it wholeheartedly. I loved with caution. Ironically, in the end, it wasn't enough caution.

Genuine. I wonder what it's like to be freely and safely in love? I imagine I would be healthy, embracing, and satisfied.

I watched her in the mirror for many years, always calming the storms that raged under her skin

… rattling her bones.

Broken never looked so damn beautiful.

But as all broken things, there were parts of her malfunctioning like a damaged toy

… like allowing the idea of happiness to stain her blood,

coating her insides with possibilities of rainbows and butterflies.

She was tired of the lies.

She never talked about it, the pain she suffered as a child, and blows she took like a champ as a teenager. She spits at the word “love” when it’s thrown at her so blasé.

Where was love when the first monster she encountered violated her? Was that love? Sure, he was kind, but he was a sick bastard that preyed on the innocent and the damned.

I watch her stare at herself, blinking back regret and chaos behind her eyes, and for a moment, she was still. Her calm frightened me to the core, and yet I could not look away from her enchanting aura.

I searched for love in her eyes, it’ was somewhere deep, under all the dirt and built-up particles that would repeatedly crash into her like a wrecking ball. A reminder.

For many years people assumed she was lost, but in all honesty, she didn’t want to be found.

Not yet.

She had broken pieces to clean up and discard first.

I just feel super horny when I see a classic style mailbox. It would be painted, propped up securely on bricks or a nice wooden post. It will have a beautiful red flag. But there's no way I can do it in public. At least not in my neighborhood with its bright streetlamps and noisy neighbors.

No, I'm not trying to steal your mail. I actually don't care whether it's full or completely empty. But I do want to open it. Then close it. Over and over and over.

So I send postcards. The addresses are always a little wrong. They come back to my mailbox, and that means it was opened and closed all without me doing it myself. It's amazing. Sometimes I go weeks without a postcard coming back. When one finally comes in, I squeal inside. I really do wait for the mail with bated breath!

Some might say I don't know for sure what kind of mailbox my postcards end up in like that was ever the point. Every mailbox has a physicality and gets mail from here to there. Yes, the mailbox itself is beautiful. But it's what's inside that counts.

Fuck this

quar·an·tine

/ˈkwôrənˌtēn/

.

(pee-ri-ud)

Parenthesis.

Parent thesis.

I mean it.

(mean(ly))

Justly,

just apprehend it.

The world’s in rehab.

Captain Ahab

trying to grab

the Moby Dick.

n

e

t

f

l

i

x

.

And chill.

Fuck the pills.

The Art of the Deal?

Mental farts are what I feel.

Going

c

r

a

z

y

Muppet Treasure Island

CABIN

F

E

V

E

R

But fuck it. I’m still a believer.