I find myself nefarious

wicked again today

it's not quite hilarious

how much these feelings weigh.

You me ask why I'm alone again

but that is quite untrue,

it's not that I don't like men

I simply dont like you.

So stop making me hate myself,

for cruelty's not my style

Pour your feelings on a shelf

and let them drip awhile.

It was a circumstance kind of love. The flare and swell of light when in close quarters, an adaptional adoration of the whole world getting squeezed into the immediate enviornment. A combination of the new year's wind and last year's mistletoe intoxicating the party. The feeling was real, yet as sincere as a still life. After the fruit has rotted the personal representation remains as the only proof. Can we believe the painter? Of course, but should we? So she took that proof and sealed it in a letter of unopened doors and let him gently close them. She was hurt. Tears fell, but more out of obligation than sorrow. A farewell to the possibility of a great partnership and the potential of an enjoyable pairing as a opposed to a great love.

I’m wearing last year’s love;

it’s sticky and residual:

washing up and down my arms, entwisting between the spaces of my spine, filling my ears like bells of cotton.

I’ve always been unfashionable;

walking down streets, forgetful of the courage it takes to pull back the shoulders:

sensing bombast; looking down.

When people see my skin, they can’t seem to look through the clouded varnish of a one-sided affection:

and so they look away.

The clarity of my eyes seem to frighten them; pieces of molten blue-silver, screaming with woken and trapped consciousness: a bygone taste.

I wash myself every day: roughly striking through caked infatuation.

It seems, however, to stretch and recongeal as fast as I try to remove it.

An animal in it’s own right.

And so last year’s love becomes this year’s burden;

and perhaps it’s not just a lack of courage preventing me from standing tall.

I’m going to manufacture some happiness today,

when the sun is too loud, the people too suckingly sad.

My heating beating heart will drown it all out

in a yellow kind of wonder.

I’ll writher tonight in my heart’s expectations,

drowning in dreamy smiles, cooled in silky sheets

produced by

the imagination of yours truly.

I’ll be my own best friend today,

my thoughts detaching from my person,

to form a faceless fearless confident.

Today, again, I’ll love myself,

the love I try to share has come hurtling back,

through the dirty night air towards my unarmored chest.

I get smacked with it, hard, and my feet lift off the grass,

the backwards motion thrusting me into the embracing ground.

It’s an old story,

to love someone who doesn’t love you back.

An unoriginal story for an unoriginal person,

who has to love them-self again

tonight.

Save me from the black lights, dear

These illuminations are a haunting wonderland

Bedridden curiosities are never crystal clear

The tarnished thick of things atmosphere

barely move my yellow eyes’ drunken sand

Save me from the black lights, dear

Perhaps a young Heath Ledger will reappear

Dapper men line my dream-ridden wasteland

Bedridden curiosities are never crystal clear

The waking hours my fists will schmear

into a black and blued unfatheredland

Save me from the black lights, dear

Knocked into next Tuesday or maybe yesteryear

My conception of time is a secondhand wedding band

Bedridden curiosities are never crystal clear

I thought I knocked this gingerbeered cavalier

but he knocks me in the mind, hand, fairylanded holyland

Save me from the black lights, dear

Bedridden curiosities are never crystal clear

The suit and tie: a perfect lie

guised among a grayer sky

I will wait for you in my space

Shivering in that dampened place

a-gazed.

And when daylight finally comes

The pulsing bleeding of my gums

will hopefully subside, untried

caught in a sticky subtle pride,

cherry spittle swirls.

Friday, I’m sad again.

Tired from running through secondhand men.

You’d think this time it’d be enough,

to sort through all your hardboiled fluff.

Slippery swollen untruths.

So let’s toast to the lies

Your cardboard suits and soup-stained ties

that I smoke out with dry heated eyes

I will continue to wait, soiled with hate

in my space

my place

aloft charcoaled decay

and the tiredly twisted replay

of your pupated puppet-ed cabaret

I’ve seen the rabbit

That large heavy breathing creature

Taller than you

longer than I

this beast is sick and the

inhales…

exhales…

are labored and slow.

The matted fur, a spoiled grey green

is shifting in jagged ups and downs.

I’ve seen the rabbit.

Those crimson wild knowing eyes

that never blink.

The stretching of the ears

A pulling tension that you can hear, that you can feel.

When pulling pullable things

like cheese

or teeth

Yes, now I know I’ve seen the rabbit.

I hear it under my mattress.

I know it’s a no longer

long time coming.

For it to wake,

push its tired paws,

lift its shaking haunches

out

over

and up

onto my bed

to my sleeping face

where it will wake me

with eyes unseeing

unto my own

sight

and

before the sun

can scream on my behalf

the rabbit

will push a

warm full hairy paw

into my opened mouth

and I will feel it’s thick pulse

on my young tongue

as it ever

so softly

chokes me.

It was the day her mother died that she realized how truly average her existence was. With one parent in despair and the other in the grave she could now relate to every young adult novel she had ever read. The credits spun downwards, containing blurred names of children now genetically equipped for science-fiction-like adventure. Despite this realization, she didn’t even believe she was genetically equipped to handle the averageness. The risks she took were small yet quickly regrettable: not locking the door to the bathroom stall, eating unwashed fruit, the part in her hair. She wasn’t into sports. Not so much afraid of the balls as the black lights. She liked sitting on metropolis park benches. Watching the people looking at her looking at them. The duality of reserved fearlessness, however, never escaped from behind the whites of her eyes. Locking in that burnt stank of averageness from ever quite leaving her nose.