tellingIf I press my ear against my arm I hear the metallic hum of white noise;press it hard enough and it will buzz uninterrupted, the steady redlight of a cigarette that indicates she is watching you. I am hereto feel your eyes on me, the tingle in the center of your palm,to tell you about the space between my words, of the space between us that becomesso tempting to infuse with color, the red which runs beneath the bite of winter snow.you drum the beat into your body because you cannot get enough. you love herbecause your heart is not enough, because the stammer of your words will outdothe finality of your hesitation and even the permanence of silence-I am here,I am hereI am hereto refrain from relative happiness- to feel the pleasure of thought runningthrough my mind; to develop a handwriting as cursive as my memory,slanted as the sun. maybe I may be something other than what I sayat daybreak, what I will say breaking in the morning into daylike a pair of new
For ExampleA fist pounds on your ribcageOverand overand over againAnd you can't seem to recognizeThe deceptive grin upon your assailant's face.After they leave you're a crumpled heap on the concrete floorAnd your heartbeat plays and replays the awful eventUntil you realize that you were truly at fault.All of your bruises are self-inflictedLike a machine that ran itself down and downUntil it couldn't anymore.You confess your sin and then do it againObsessionRecessionAn abscess forms on your soulAnd you keep doing itAgainand againand againSo that the scars remind you that all of them leftAnd you were the one who beat yourself up about it.Someday you'll realizeThat it was never you against the world.It was alwaysYouAgainstYourself.
What By NightThis is a lazy and ambiguous recollectionOf whatever happened when it didOr, more appropriately,What didn't happen whenever it didn't.I don't remember youWith long brown hair and green eyesThat might even have been brownBecause you are no more your eyesThan what they see in the mirror,Or any more than that, your name;It's just another pretty wordThat I can't use anymore.Who you are is an artist;You made me who I amAnd you let me know I was not alone.I am a sculpture of clay, by your hand.You've marked me with intention,But just before it set inYou left me on a shelf.Now I am dry and cracked;Forgotten, I am the unfinished result of your experimental daze.