#shanzagram

It’s half past one and I can’t help but notice

the low steady hum of the ceiling fan,

the clicks of the mechanism that turns those big rudders,

and the sighs of the house as it settles down for the night.

Outside it’s 27° and inside the thermostat stays constant at 67°, but somehow I’m always sweating myself to sleep.

Sweating because I’ve been sweating you for weeks.

And something about those ocean-blue gems that draw out my truth,

rob me of my youth,

provoke the most uncouth

thorny statements,

so rude.

You made me feel haunted.

You made me feel hunted.

You chased me down,

a trivial pursuit.

And every night, you dance into my mind,

waltzing in, weaving webs as I try to unwind.

Your laugh echoes around me, your face surrounds me.

I’m trapped in a funhouse of fallacy.

I catch myself falling as I can’t catch my breath after falling for you.

Tripping over slate sidewalks uprooted

by trees growing cramped, exposed ancient roots.

The way my love for you outgrew the box we drew

around it,

the lies we surrounded

ourselves with,

the chaos we concealed behind tight lipped smiles,

It’s funny how I can look at you and feel nothing.

Your presence doesn’t phase me, your gaze doesn’t weigh against me.

I don’t feel nerves, nor the anxious flutter of butterflies beating madly in my belly.

I feel nothing.

But I know you see me, and in me, see everything. I give you purpose.

My smile means the sun is shining for you, and if I laugh, it’s like Christmas.

The flirtation is endless. And I reciprocate it, at will.

Not because I want you, just because it’s something to do.

And perhaps this is just the first of many mirrors in a funhouse maze.

I entertain your affections, advances. I soak in your desire because I’m using you.

Using you the way someone on the other side of the mirror uses me.

And the irony is,

knowing how bad you want me, need me,

knowing how little I care,

I am infinite and running parallel,

so I know we shall never cross again.

Your distance from me is mere inches but in the span of this lifetime,

we shall remain fingertips apart and never touch.

This is our toxic tragedy, a dance between our dyad as we orbit silently, wistfully.

I can’t remember the last time I felt like this,

Somedays it feels hopeless, gut-wrenching, impossible.

Somedays you’ll feel so broken, beat down.

Your love is impossible.

Because loving someone so unloveable is just not possible.

The promises flow in, the promises flow out. The promises play pinnacle on your snout.

You’re walking dead, carved empty, a rotted turkey with no wishes, or wishbones left.

You’re tired of the empty words. The hollow promises that scatter like birds after a gunshot.

That’s how it feels. A gunshot. Buckshot. Birdshot.

Shot once, 75 mini pellets pierce through your heart.

You’ll always remember a cotton-dry mouth, while he wetted his with whisky.

The morning of your wedding day, you’ll remember the way

your gut clenched like fists, and your hands sweat like pina coladas on a hot day.

You’ll never forgive him, you never need to.

But answering each call will shorten your lifespan.

You’re so sick of lies, I’m so sick of lies, you keep saying to yourself.

He’s hurt you, but never laid a hand.

He’s hurt you, but he’s just a man, right?

They all make mistakes, the price that they claim,

the price that you pay.

You’re broken, but they don’t ever say they’re sorry. They’re the victims.

There are very few mistakes we make in the silence of our own homes.

For if they happened in silence and behind closed doors, we would wipe them from our minds.

Mistakes are only real when they happen before an audience,

when the secrecy of our lives becomes public and embarrassing.

We always excuse the indiscretions that remain discreet,

but when they become indiscreet, that is when we tremble beneath the weight of our wrongdoing.

Whispers haunt us, the ghosts of our ill-advised decisions that linger on the lips of every mouth that comes in contact with our own.

When we are silent and our private lives remain secret, we feel comforted about our catastrophic calamities.

Some days it will not make sense

and the waves will catch you off guard, sweep you off your feet.

The current may tug you under,

and sometimes it feels better just to drown.

You know what’s funny?

We live in the warm embrace of PC.

We tell everyone cozy comfortable things,

compliments, accolades of sugary sweet nothings,

whispered to us, daily, in reality,

in our dreams.

The reality is,

none of this is reality.

Reality TV is scripted,

your job is pointless.

Your marriage is “most likely to fail” according to a high school poll of superlatives.

Your pet will die long before you’re ready to say goodbye.

No matter how kind time has been to you,

you’re getting older every day,

slow-rolling toward your own demise in a forever tango,

of a sad slow existence.

You paid way too much for school.

You’ll spend your life repaying debts.

Student loans. Insurance. Cell phone.

You’ll never live up the expectations of your parents.

yes, your ass does look fat in your pants.

No, no one cares.

There will be days when your lover won’t love you,

but will fuck you all the same,

physically, or mentally, or emotionally.

You aren’t as pretty as you think,

science told us that.

You know what this is,

it ain’t a pep talk, champ, or chief, or ace,

whatever fake nickname you prefer.

This is

the

cold

hard

I’m blind, so I can’t hear myself.

The words slither from my mouth like snakes.

A weird Medusa, snakes in my mouth, and spikes on my head.

Chains wrapped around my wrists,

they’ll come undone, I’ll rip them up,

swinging them around like Samson.

These snakeheads that creep out of my mouth

will blind you,

you’ll never be my Delilah, I won’t letcha.

I can only see color,

everything is red, hot, spicy,

I can see how loud it is.

the fluid nature of my emotions,

pumps blood red rage in my brain.

You see, the brain in love, is a lot like

the brain on drugs.

Well, Pinocchio, I can’t see beyond the rage.

the truth is,

your lies betray your face.

You’re Peter Pan, stuck in neverland.

For a while I was Wendy, passion compelled me.

It’s no longer a fairytale book,

you’re still Peter, but I’m Captain Hook.

For your passion, for your lies, I’ve got one response,

it’s deadly,