Existence for Granted

Displacement, a vacuum
Heartbreaks yield a smile
Strangers are lovers without
I want so much of nothing at all
Restless
He’s wrecked
More of nothing. Less of now
I don’t like what I want
I pursue the escape
Fall for an exit
Inhale the end
His eyes gaze my soul
Or the lack thereof
Seclusion is pure
Death plays hard to get
Pull me in close
As I shut my eyes
Envision the movement
Stand everything still
It has been a pleasure, of course, missing you
It will be an honor, destroying you.

Emotional Rollerfuck.

The shower runs

Both hands on the tiles

Break everything but character

Break nothing but myself

Light cracks through the door

Render me still

Deflection. The ruse

The red herring was always the muse

Breath held on a word

It’s time to be stifled

A shadow is cast

Hot water drips down

His clothes folded neat‍

Nothing can die

The care is kept deep

But when I stand out

My elbow is held

And so is my throat

Black Tuesday on a Blue Sunday

The sense of rejection
The fear gets lost
The style gets good
The junction is here
There is always a point
The distance is close
I can’t see it now
A gentleman’s cap
A loose conversation
I passed the point
Fuck the silhouette burned
In the lids of my eyes
Your face is stained
Upon the face of my thought
And all that you have
Is the rest of your life
And all that I have
Is a stolen ballpoint
The billiards, the camels
The hands, the scent
The stare, the cats
I never came with intent
The best, the most
I’d never render less
Because I’d offer more,
But then again, you never made the point.

Ode to the Spirit Animal

Resin from the glass
Not suicide without note
From the corner of my eye
I stare far too long
An exit for each room
Not surprised I see it now
Easily the martyr
I put it all together well
Only for the moment
So unfair of me
Once I could’ve deserved
But I did everything
Now I would never stop
Stay through to the end
So I stand in the crowd
Set fire to my soul
Destroy the lives of many
So I will never ruin you

The Dust in the Bottle

Motions strong as ever

Notions running thin

The sharp contrast of maturity

Blood trickles from the blade

The lack of suicidal tendencies

Where now do I belong?

Normality the sickness evermore

Cognition sloppy at its best

The light there at the end

A pretty lie, like all the rest

The eye contact examined

Silent rays then marked with “X.”

He kisses like tomorrow exists.

With the blindfold I can see.

Stones come lifted, truth bear and raw

I can do everything but believe

Words take flight, identity dies

But not before he kills me.

Pool Table Tournaments

I used to tell a good story.

Today I stutter and utter nothing but a guess of what is expected to be.

Striving to deliver an image of what I think he wants.

I was never good with the arts and crafts.

I’m almost to my late 20’s, the place where originality goes to die.

Creativity is gone. I would bow out gracefully.

But I left dignity long ago.

I don’t know how the snowman got on my fridge.

The last time I checked, he was cast aside.

There is so much more that I will never admit.

This is going to be a good year.

In the presence of doers,

I aspire to die.

The Cons of Making It to Thirty

With my knees on the floor.
Elbows to the mattress.
Forsaken lovers dance.
Across the lids of my eyes.

I’m not a sinner.
I just came from confession.
One Act of Contrition.
Three Hail Mary’s.

I’m not a heartbreaker.
I came home alone.
One bold, red tattoo.
Three feet of severed hair.

My eternal penance.
For a broken word.
Is a ball and chain.
With a broken lock.

I paid for individuality.
With a happy home.
And unborn children.
The condemnation of freedom.

Antisocial Dating

I can’t remember the last weekend in which an absurd story wasn’t embroidered in the headers and footers. If every day is noteworthy, no day is ever noteworthy. I went on a date with a friend of a friend. Actually, it was rather me inviting him to a show, because I couldn’t get any other poor sod to rise to the occasion. In a dimwitted attempt at giving back to the community, I’ve recently put a stop to the continuous string of one-hit-wonders with strangers. He insisted on driving the opposite direction to come pick me up…to humor the pretense of formality, let’s pretend.

The first time I’d met him was a couple years ago, when I was with a boyfriend. The second time I’d met him was a year ago, with a different boyfriend. The last time I’d met him was a couple months ago. This time I had no boyfriend, just the dress and makeup of the previous evening’s date. I didn’t know him well, but considering the kinds of blinds and randoms I’d been out with lately, you could argue I’d known him a lifetime.

He picked me up at a quarter to 8pm. A 6’5, slender brunette. Great bone structure, perfect symmetry. It was my first time being in a Prius. He’d brought rum in a water bottle and two packs of cigarettes. My kind of date. We dusted the rum in the parking lot before the show. Sadistik & Cunninlynguists. We had another drink or 2 at the bar and got lost in the music. I hadn’t encountered a romance that was not toxic and in some way ugly, tainted, or wicked in over a year. Hell, the last time I’d been out on a date with somebody with a first and last name was over 7 months ago.

The intertwining of fingers to live music in a dark crowd of true fans tends to evoke a deeper kind of connection. Although I’ve held a match to every one of my fingers, I still found myself wanting to get caught up in the whims and follies of the music junkie. We left before the show ended. I was only interested in seeing Sadistik’s set, and he was only interested in seeing me naked. I’ll admit. When I left the house that night, I didn’t see myself inviting him up. Not deviating from the trend of honesty, I still have trouble seeing myself inviting him up.

I’m not sure when exactly I let slip the notion of a luminous love and instead adopted a notion of twisted despair. Maybe it was when I found out I couldn’t have children. Perhaps it was when I found out my husband slept with my best friend. Or maybe it was when I broke the heart of a virgin and felt nothing but relieved. I want two hands squeezing tightly around my neck, as I throw an arm out into the dark and slap the jaw of an unknown. I don’t want to look him in the eyes, and I don’t want to fuck in daylight.

I got him out of the house before 8am. I left shortly after to go visit my childhood best friend. She bartended Monday mornings at a small dive. Sometimes I find it comforting to be around familiarity, even if they do think I’m nothing but a running gag. The rest of the day was a bit of a blur. Late afternoon I found myself on a rooftop bar in Laguna Beach, with a forty-two year old man. I still don’t remember his name, or what he did for a living. I’d met him at the dive, and he’d invited me down to his house. I told him I’d drive down to meet him. The last thing I remember was excusing myself to go to the restroom, and dipping out the backside of the restaurant to my car. I never spoke to him again.

I’m not sure why I left.
I’m not sure why I ever leave.
I’m not sure why I didn’t tell him I was leaving.
I’m not sure why I never tell them when I am leaving.

Prisoners of Love

Every night I lie with my back against my lover.
Wrapped in his arms I sleep in isolation.

Not before he admires the way my exposed body lies.
He can see nothing but his primitive desires.

I beg for words, any at all, but he cannot offer one.
Can no man get me to stay?

I reminisce upon the past. The ones I left for better or worse.
Here lies pedestrian affection at its finest.

For passion conduces an existence of nil but sex and incommunicable thoughts.
And the price of a cerebral connection is a string of faked orgasms.

I refuse to accept the two be mutually exclusive.
But again I lie in the endearments of another failed attempt to spite the odds.

He whispers utter adoration. Rested on my pillow, clumsily I lie.
The same way I’ve always lied, countless times before.