#seducedbyink

Is there a corner of the universe where I can throw them, far enough that even memory won’t bother to follow?

What do I do with the shards— the pieces of me left splintered by the things you said? Where do I tuck them so they stop cutting every part of who I’m trying to be?

How do I move forward without seeing myself through the warped mirror of your wounded vision?

I bow to your knowledge of dead birds and the way their skulls hold the secrets we whisper in their sleep.

The ways your eyes pierce like smooth blades across new skin.

I am all around you like new snow, and across me, you inscribe yourself as stonesmiths do to tombstones.

and I watched as chance after chance after chance

slipped through my fingers.

Moments that could have been etched

In our shared history

were instead lost in the abyss of silence.

The words I have been wanting to say

but never have to courage to

remained locked within my soul,

stifling under the weight

of my own indecision and lack of faith.

Faith for what we could have been,

where our love could have gotten us,

and why we always find out our way

to each other's doorstep.

The unspoken truths echoed

in the depths of my being,

a constant reminder of the opportunities—

of you, of us that slipped away.

Regret paints its melancholic strokes

on the canvas of my heart,

for the road not taken will forever haunt me.

Yet, amidst the sorrow,

a flicker of hope remains,

whispering that perhaps, one day,

the universe will conspire

to reunite our paths and grant us

I need loud music

So no stray thoughts

Can haunt my hollow skull

Without permission.

I need fast cars

So I can spit in the face

Of a death so close

That I feel alive again.

I need long nights

So I can succeed

In all the hobbies I love

But ignore during daylight.

I need love

So that I can feel

Something other than

Yet, within is something alluring, a piece inside is stirring.

If you look you can see while she pushes and pulls, longing to be free, the rush of emotions breaking her own rule.

She is alone in the world she created, behind the wall of waves she instated.

I’ll admit, she’s a bit like me. And this was never how I meant it to be.

When the air runs out, my lungs will just have to get more confident. Almost anything is possible with confidence. Thirty minutes of pep talking and you’re breathing concrete, the car runs on milk. Fresh November is a lot less gregarious than fresh July or May. I have this suspicion that god sometimes tries to wipe us away, but he only makes the canvas uglier. This phenomenon is better known as winter.

Half of living is pretense, stroking the beard of an empty head. The earth rotates around the sun once and, suddenly, my mother is mad that I’ve double booked my birthday. Introduce a black hole into the local galactic picture and she’s forgotten my birthday, forgotten my age, forgotten her own name, but she knows there’s a big black dot in the firmament and that everyone’s fucked. The great tennis shoe stomps the anthill New Year. Of course there’s meaning. Twirl your noisemaker harder.

Doing this all backwards would be better. My fingers un-type this poem; my mind un-thinks all of its thoughts. Mom gets happy and dad becomes a swell guy. Being born a second time does sound preferable to perishing a first time, which explains the proliferation of religious paraphernalia in my grandmother’s house. I have confidence that last line will be funny in the exact same way that I have confidence that I will one day be able to grow a mustache: that is, even if nobody likes it.

We’re supposed to be happy, but living this feels more like crying at the circus. This is supposed to be a poem, but writing it feels more like throwing a rock. You can learn and learn about the world, but it will still eventually kill you, no matter how wide your knowledge. Drown in the ocean or drown in your bathtub. Juliet singing a song as she waits for the poison to metabolize. When the confidence runs out, it won’t be so bad to not breathe at all.