Not Tonight

I'm not going to hurt myself
Even though I fucking want to.
I'm not going to cut myself
Into a thousand useless pieces.

Not tonight.
No, not tonight.

I'm not going to kill myself
Because I know what that would do.
I know that you would blame yourself
After all that shit you said.

I could really hurt myself
More than anyone else is able.
But I'll put the knife back on its shelf
And stow the gun beneath the bed.

Not tonight.
No, not tonight.

I whisper the mantra to myself
So I don't do something fatal.
I'm not going to kill myself,
Even when the pain increases.

Not tonight.
No, not tonight.

I'm not sure how to stop myself,
And yet, I somehow always do.
You're worried about my mental health?
I promise, so am I.

I'm not going to kill myself,
Even though I sometimes want to.
I don't want to hurt anyone else,
And that means I can't die.

Not tonight.
No, not tonight.

I'm not going to hurt myself
Even though I fucking want to.
I'm not going to cut myself
Into a thousand useless pieces.

Unsent Letter No. 9

I almost texted you last night.

I was drunk, tired, and conflicted.

You've been on my mind a lot lately —

I don't really know why —

And I was wondering how you've been.

I was wondering if you miss me.

I was wondering if you love me:

Or, at least, if you ever did.

But those questions are left unanswered,

And I suppose it's better that way

For both of us.

I wanted to reach out and apologize

For all those terrible things I did 

And for all those terrible things I said,

But I didn't want to dredge that up.

If I'm to be a memory,

I hope to be a pleasant one,

But I doubt that's a possibility.

You have every right to hate me;

I suppose I've the same right to hate you.

I can't, really, but I have the right.

I never wanted things to end the way they did;

I never wanted them to end at all,

Yet here I am, 

Wondering how it went so wrong.

I told you once

That if I loved you yesterday,

I would love you forever. 

That's still the truth, you know.

I've fallen in love a thousand times,

And I probably will a thousand more,

But of nine hundred ninety-nine heartbreaking,

None hurt quite like yours.

Best regards.

2:49 P.M.

My head hurts.

It's a million degrees in the office.

The clock is ticking its somber song,

Perpetual, as if today is Limbo.

Tick, tick, tick.

I wonder what the thermostat is set to.

I drink some water, 

But the headache doesn't subside.

The keyboards echo the clock.

Tick, tick, tock.

I can hear the computer mice

Clicking, roving, searching.

Eternally unsatisfied, restless,

Like my knee bouncing beneath the desk.

Tick, tock, tick.

The computer says it's 2:49 P.M.

It's been 2:49 for as long as I can remember.

The clock on the wall is behind,

Stuck at 2:48, in that space between times.

Tock, tick, tick.

I'm writing an email. Maybe two.

My words are punctuated by the clock.

My thoughts are punctuated by my breath.

My head hurts.

Tick, tick. tick.

void

Every once in a while,

I get this irrepressible urge

To destroy everything I have created.

I fight off the desire

To rip myself apart in spectacular fashion

And wound everyone with the misfortune to know me.

I find myself staring in the mirror,

Utterly terrified of what I see

Just behind my emerald eyes.

I want to rip myself apart,

But I'm afraid of what I'll find inside,

And unwilling to release it.

I fight off l'appel du vide,

But I know it's still there,

Somewhere,

Whispering to me when I'm alone.

I look into that blackest abyss

And feel it gaze back into me.

Something Inside

Something inside me is grieving,
And I know not for what it mourns -
A longing for something beyond my reach,
Beyond my knowledge, beyond the breach.

Something inside me is broken,
And I can't find the piece.
Somewhere beneath the surface,
Shattered and amorphous.

Something inside me is furious,
Full of claws and gnashing teeth,
Tearing at the walls of its cage,
And consuming me with its rage.

Something inside me is turbulent,
Whirling out of control.
It's threatening to rip me apart
And drown me, alone, in the dark.

Something inside me is grieving,
And I know not for what it mourns.
It's bottled up, kept safely inside,
That thing that can't be described.

Feral

Sometimes I feel

As if I am going feral -

Drooling, snarling, whimpering -

And making sounds no civilized person

Ought to make.

Trapped in a prison

And enslaved

By a hundred million years of evolution,

We are bound to one purpose.

I am feral.

Call me wicked, filthy, degenerate;

Call me nothing but what I am,

And nothing but what I do.

Words escape me,

Slipping from my mind 

Like silt between my fingers 

And smoke on the breeze:

Inarticulate. Feral.

I am trapped,

By a hundred million years of instinct

And a primal sense of need.

They trap my mind

In a cage of ecstasy.

I question myself,

Asking if I am the master

Or if I am enslaved,

But I'm not sure that it matters.

I am feral.

You can smell it on my skin,

See it in my eyes,

Taste it on my lips,

Hear it in my breath,

And feel it through my heart.

Gasping for air,

For the words that escape me,

I am helpless - powerless -

In the face of a hundred million years

Of ferocity.

Does it matter if you know what I am?

I am not sure that it changes anything,

So long as you know 

I am feral.

Spilling

It's as if I am drowning,

Struggling to keep my head up

In water so deep it spills over the edges

And splatters onto the floor.

It's as if I am on my tip-toes,

Barely able to touch the bottom,

And most of the time, it's okay,

But every wave pushes me underwater.

I sputter and cry out, but it's in my mouth

And spilling every time I speak.

It drips from the ceiling, an endless flood,

Filling all the buckets in my mind.

There's too much to bottle and store,

Too much to seal away,

But I must try or else I'll drown

In all the things I can't contain. 

It's spilling all around me,

Soaking everyone who comes close,

Clinging to their skin and clothes,

A reminder of the mess I've made.

It's as if I can't find the bottom

For more than a second.

My toes brush against the rocks

And try to cling to them.

It's as if I'm drowning,

In a torrent of myself.

I can't drown it out with anything

Because the flood comes from inside.

Aesthetic

My aesthetic is the soft rays of the sunset

Painting the underside of the clouds

With light the color of peaches and marigolds.

It is the song stuck in your head,

With the bassline you feel in your chest

That compels you to tap your toe.

My aesthetic is the rolling thunder

That shakes windows and rattles teeth

As it ripples through the sky.

My aesthetic is the black outline of trees

Against a sky the color of fire,

Whispering in the wind.

It's the smell of the ocean and wood smoke,

With the sticky sweetness of honey

And the clear bite of pine and mint.

My aesthetic is silent sobs in the shower

With tightness in the throat

And catharsis in the form of hot water.

It is the primal screams of grief and elation,

The burn of lightning in the sky,

And the touch of eiderdown.

My aesthetic is the whistle of the highway,

That exhilaration just beyond the speed limit,

And the ecstasy of being alive.

It is the thrill of victory

Coupled with voracity,

Curiosity, and ambition.

My aesthetic is the Caribbean sea,

The light of the moon,

And the warmth of the touch of a friend.

It is the blinding brilliance of the sun,

The mystery in the stars,

And the love of all the universe.

Implosion

Every piece builds the pile,

Each one heavier than the last.

It grows and swells and builds

Until it reaches critical mass.

Eventually, the strain's too great,

And that is when it starts:

Sudden, violent, unstoppable,

It rips itself apart.

Unable to downregulate

The primal, cosmic wrath,

Each piece tears the next one down

Along that one-way path.

A wound rips through the universe

Creating a million cracks.

And all because the pile

Finally collapsed.

Unsent Letter No. 8

 I don't know if you ever forgave me,

But I know that I haven't forgiven myself

For that grievous error,

A mistake so catastrophic that it haunts me

More than half a decade later.

I know that we've both tried to move on,

But I know that I can't let it all go,

And I can't help but wonder

If that's the case for you, too.

Forgiven, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.

They say "time heals all wounds,"

But neglect to mention the scars left behind:

Scars that fade into memories

And are never really gone.

Scars I left on you which I have carved into myself.

Perfection

A butterfly in the wind,

The further I reach,

The farther it flies,

Ever fluttering

Just beyond my fingertips.

I should catch it.

I must catch it.

It is what's expected;

It is what's necessary.

Whispering, it taunts me,

Knowing it lies

Beyond my grasp,

But I must pursue it

Anyway.

There should be no mistakes.

I cannot make a mistake.

No errors are permitted;

No blunders are acceptable.

In one hand, I hold knowledge:

It is impossible.

In the other, I hold desire:

It must be reached.

"Or Else" is not an option.

Azure wings against azure sky

Unattainable

Irresistible 

Perfection.

Outburst

 I had another outburst.

My bottled feelings boiled over,

Spilled down my shirt,

And scalded both of us.

Sometimes I'm able to step away

When I feel those feelings roiling,

But more often than not I notice too late,

And more than myself gets burned.

Part of me would rather be liked,

But the other'd rather be right,

And my righteous, preposterous rage

Frequently fills me with regrets.

Emotional outbursts scorch the earth

Like dragon's fire, uncontained,

And even though I'm terribly sorry,

I know it'll happen again.

My Friend's Book

 I like reading my friend's book.

Not just a book she recommended,

Nor one she gave as a gift -

The same book that she read

Before handing it off to me.

I like reading my friend's book;

I come across places with curved pages,

And imagine her reading with one hand,

Suddenly needing to set it down

But not ready to close it quite yet.

I like reading my friend's book.

I find a crease in the corner -

The dreaded, horrid, dog-eared page -

And I know it is a place where she stopped,

A place where she had to come up for air.

I like reading my friend's book,

For I find places she marked.

A folded page corner that didn't get smoothed

Marks a place she found significant

And left for me to find.

I like reading my friend's book,

But I wonder if reading it

Was as hard for her as it is for me.

I wonder if it happened to her,

Or if she knew it happened to me.

I like reading my friend's book

And knowing we turned the same pages.

I like the wonder that reading it brings;

I like how strongly I know it is hers;

And I like how she knew to give it to me.

The Lie

 I cannot bring myself to sleep

For fear I don't wake up,

Yet I can't bear another hour

Alone here with my thoughts.

I fear the sound of my own breath,

Sitting here in silence,

Yet there is no release in death

Nor in the endless violence.

I'm trapped within my own damn head

But say that I'm okay;

Maybe if I repeat the lie,

It will be true one day.

My soul is tearing at my chest

Not knowing where to go,

Chasing a high that passed me by

And left me in the low.

I curse the burdens that I bear

And seek a cheap escape,

But I know I can't break your heart,

And so, I'll fight my fate.

I'll tell you that I'm doing fine -

Maybe you'll believe it - 

But deep inside, it is a lie,

And I wish I believed it.

One Hundred

 I have one hundred shot glasses,

And only some of them are mine.

They're souvenirs from trips long past;

Memories that do not belong to me,

But which have been placed into my care.

One hundred times you thought of me,

One hundred times someone bought

A fragile little thing only to carry it

One hundred miles or more,

And then give it away.

I have one hundred shot glasses,

Sitting up on my shelf.

Twinkling in the sunlight,

They welcome me home each day.

I have one hundred memories,

And not all of them are mine.