Loneliness of your own making,
your eyes are open,
and you find yourself in grips with it.
This fucking venom,
chronic and life-giving,
killing my ability to react.
it sits inside my chest,
and rests against my pulse.
Sometimes I can’t speak.
But I can see.
I can see the leaves,
and the way the sun dotes on them.
It’s beautiful and has its uses.
But it hurts.
Because I’m alone,
by choice, though.
Dreams are vain, vile creatures,
blind to everything that is not of their own making.
Strutting around, piled high with foolish nonsense and glittering promises.
But we love them anyway.
Orphaned from birth, they spend their lives searching for someone to nurture them.
We just so happen to be equipped for the job.
We ourselves are born with holes in our hearts and ghosts in our heads.
We as a species, are naturals at brave and blind perseverance.
So who is better to dream?
We don’t have much of a choice in the matter, it is what we were born to do.
We are also orphans, in a way.
Created out of sand,
so they say.
A grainy mannequin,
in the image of what we “should” be.
I’d rather just dream.
I wish I knew how to look at you,
because then I may understand why your eyes never smile.
They find my face,
but can’t bring themselves to answer my questions.
It breaks me,
because I never learned your language.
So I can’t ever be one of you.
The eyes that you gave me,
aren’t lasting out here.
I’m losing you,
Is this an addiction?
Am I suffering in silence or is this how you teach?
It seems you set me up for failure,
when I met you.
I hope you enjoy the taste.
You avert your eyes,
as though they can pierce you with theirs.
Because you know they can.
Because then you’d have a hard time feeling self-righteous. You’d kick yourself for walking by.
Is that ego really so important?
We rise to the visions that others project,
falling to the ones that no one wants to see.
He dabbed a sprig of liquid lavender on one wrist.
Then the other.
His mirror gawked at him,
struck blind by such brazen behavior.
The crystal bottle shook as his hands did,
which made replacing the cap difficult.
His father didn’t know.
His father didn’t know about the silk scarves stuffed into a small slit in the upstairs mattress. His father didn’t know about the trips to the theatre district, and the lace costumes she had tried on.
Was there no mercy? No understanding?
Of course not,
this was a man’s world.
There stands time, not as a grandfather, but as a threadbare coat. Thrown on the bed, or the vertebrae of a chair, waiting. Time waits for no man, but birthed patience in the stead of something greater. This coat, a needy thing, rejects all who wear it, particular to a fault. And whose fault is it? Is it he, worrying at the dregs of his morning coffee? Is it she, plucking mournfully at the whiskers of her cello? Or is it the unfinished manuscript, curled against the banister, forgotten? This coat, with ears upturned, eyes tarnished, and smeary skin, it neglects to mention who it waits for. The thing retains glorious roots and an empty tongue. This vain supposition lies misbegotten, its birth not of the womb but of the mind. Can you feel it now, tugging at your sleeves with its dull teeth? Chipping away at your eyesight, a malignant Michelangelo. Immortality is a broken sewing machine, pinned to the eyes of the beholder. I think you’ll understand when you’re older.
Safe on a tightrope,
falling from a microscope.
Drowning in a pool of stars,
purchasing our pretty scars.
Writing things on the wall,
using honey and a tiny scrawl.
Forever fighting our mirrors,
slaying those ugly little flaws.
This is how we get our claws.
Like Narcissus of old,
trapped in front of a reflection bold.
Only she dislikes what she sees.