lies

Shred my cheeks to pieces,

Tear my thoughts,

Bleed my veins.

Something untold is clearly irrelevant and something forgotten longs to be remembered. The porch swing rocks in the chafing wind and I stare at it with an eternal hatred that fills my lungs with noise. If only I could blame it on its peeling paint. Blame it all on the creaking chains that dangle from the trellis above. What I wish could be simple sighs morph into screams of disgust and pain and while you bury yourself in a pit I hold the shovel. 

I sit alone forever in a room full of eternal promises that have never been kept. I claim your words as my bread and meat but find no solace in your actions. A divergent mind plays upon my emotions and I dance with the unlucky ghosts of her former suitors. A silken hand runs across the nape of my sunburned neck and I cannot control the shiver that runs deep into my hairline. I want to whip around this instant and scrape every lie off your face with my fingernails.

Impale me.

Crush my bones and

leave me for dead

but please 

never forget me.

Those flaming eyes that once burned the oxygen I breathed are now nothing but rotting pits that need to be removed. I long past all longing for the past, salvaging the last remains of my memories and sensory experiences before all turn to sandpaper and sawdust. I roll up my sleeves and begin to polish each one with a meticulous carefulness that would put glassblowers to shame. My knuckles crack and bleed and fill each memory membrane with the dark red fluid that startles even the most innocent creature. They no longer taste sweet, and I realize what they've been this whole time.

LIES
LIES
LIES
LIES
LIES
LIES

Hateful post because you Aren't.

{Found saved as a Draft on 2/13/13}

I'm thinking of how you aren't.
How you aren't the same person I knew
Who dreamed of the world and
knew he couldn't have it.
How you aren't the only one who cares,
or even someone who cares at all.
You aren't you, and I'm not me.
You aren't the narcissistic maniac who,
sometimes,
had a moment of sanity for me alone.
Instead the sanity is opened to an apathetic audience
who applauds your normality as you crowd-surf on their bias.
You're attempting individuality but only conforming to the norm
And I hate you for it.
I'm thinking about how you aren't.

about a nobody.

Interlaced in your fingers is a twine made out of stars, twisting and swirling their light between your rough knuckles. Your hands remind me of the kind of worn-down sandpaper that tingles your skin when it makes contact and is thrilling in a strange, whimsical way. Euphoria and insomnia are your favorite words and, as much as I hate to admit it, I love them because you do. Your hair reminds me of the spun gold in Rumpelstiltskin, and your eyes leave traces of forever in every place they wander to. I think it's the freckles that invite me so willingly to remember and the never-changing smile that reminds me of the nearest future.
Please, start running and never come back.
Please, find a portal and enter in without hesitation.
Please, give me a reason to rent a moving truck.

JUST LEAVE ME ALONE OKAY

I never want to see those handsome dimples again.

If you think you know who this is about,

it isn't you or anyone else.

It isn't nobody.

sweet apple cider

All I'm thinking about is them, and you, and spices that smell like Christmas Eve in Germany. My senses are imprisoned and all I can think about is that sweet apple cider, sitting, steaming in a mug, waiting, wanting me to sip until every ounce of me is drenched in Johnny Appleseed goodness. Pour it over my worries, refill until my anger is emptied and my sadness is dissolved away into a solvent of apple cinnamon. It warms my stomach, and heart, and head, and I'm happy. I'm happier than you were on the day your dad bought you your first piece of piano music, and I'm even calmer than your mother when she knows you are sleeping safely at home. Puncture my heart, bleed my veins, enslave me with your scent, all can be undone in one simple sip. The image of your face no longer ripples my memories and I've almost completely forgotten (except some days when I'm leaving the house without a key and want to tell you how much I love a certain morbid poem). All I'm really trying to tell you is that I'm drinking hot, sweet apple cider without shame and hoping against nothing that tomorrow it will snow glory from the skies and delay the long weeks before Christmas. All I'm saying is that if you could dance outside right now, I would dance with you, and I might even leave my apple cider behind for you, unless you might want some, because you like it as much as I do.