Collections

I feel my pain in
the eyeliner collecting
beneath my nails.
The anxiety.
The anger.
The smooth, black
pencil that piles
up further into
the crevices between
the tips of my fingers
and the underside of
my nails.
Scrubbing but the
evidence is still there.
So... evident.
A symbol of dark,
mysterious beauty.
What is makeup?
Cover.
A disguise.
A way to make us
feel beautiful.
I don't.
I don't feel beautiful.
A collection:
A gathering of
memoirs that mean
something to someone.
My only collections:
Charcoal smudged
beneath my nails
and the black
feathers that fall
to my floor
in pain,
anxiety,
and anger
that mean something
to me.

The Viewing

She matched in black

Her pony slicked back

As I watched her clear her plate

Her tongue swollen to muffled sounds

My fingertips rubbed at my tragus

Yet still nothing but nonsensical noises

She appeared so alive

The sight bittersweet

My heart warmed but sank into my stomach

Was it God or that Devil,

Knee deep in Bordeaux

Who swims the circumference of a hock?

If God were a good man

My faith would not be uncertain.

Perhaps her strength was too lacking to live

But upon a bed she lay,

As do I when I close my eyes,

Her audience draped in all black

As was she

As she cleared that plate

In a state that seemed so tangible

That I reach for her hands

Clad in gold rings

Left to me in her remembrance

Push

I slouch in my chair when I'm with my friends.

And use words like “shit” and “fuck”.

She hates it when I curse around her,

And I apologize for it in her presence;

For my habitual potty mouth.

Sometimes it just slips out.

The way "I miss you" accidentally escapes my lips,

Down my arms and into my finger tips,

Then pounces on the word ‘Send’

Even though I saw her hours before.

The way I mistakingly add beautiful

To the end of every good morning.

Every good night.

I am predictable.

Predictable as the sun will rise and set.

Predictable as her fear of diving in.

She says she once dove into the shallow end.

It took her over two years to hit the bottom.

She wants to learn to swim again

But she won't let me teach her.

Cool, chlorinated water on just my toes

Can't satisfy my craving.

August sun beating down, 

My blood is beginning to boil,

And I'm inching into the deep end,

Trying to pull her with me.

She's fighting me. Crying.

Panic painted on her face.

Either I pull her in and she drowns,

Or I watch her bask in sunlight from afar.

Her fear stares me blankly in the eyes,

And for once, I am unpredictable.

A Love Poem

Your solitude a juggernaut,

Here you are.

There we were

Destroying all we are

The benevolent failing in their only work,

Your heart became ever so corrupted

The molten core I aimed to be

Became the dirt beneath your feet

Crammed in the map lines of the sole of your shoe

Seen only when you entered home

Searching for warmth and comfort

I left you on a Friday and regretted it on Saturday

I refused to turn back, to look 

At your plaid flannel and tapered khakis

To see your cheeks without a smile

Without those dimples, 

Rather covered in the tread marks of tears

I refused to let you see my swollen, remorseful eyes

Filled with dejected rage, two burn holes of bogies in a blanket

Yet here we are a year later, our tongues still stuck to frozen flagpoles

I’m only acquainted with your shadow

But for the words your mother shares with me

And the moments your mother shares with me

The time your mother shares with me

Your mother like a nicotine patch when I need that cigarette

To taste smoke on my breath

You on my breath

What is left of you that lingers on my breath

My very last breath

The one I used to tell you that I was leaving on that Friday.

Dennis

“Play it again.

This is just what I need,”

She orders him.

Tap, tap, tapping feet.

Each pluck of the guitar

Strings like tweezers

Picking out each 

Sore word the other man bore 

Into her that evening.

She did not see

The look in his eyes

While his fingers

Played notes he 

Had memorized.

Well learnt from hours

Of practice for this

Moment when he would

Remove the wounds of

Another man once more.

A Lonely Heart (quick write)

A heart does not do well alone:
Yearns for lusting, loving, a hand to hold,
To become whole, to fill a hole,
For another to listen and to console.
Craving that kiss, that meaningful stare,
A heart may see what is not there.
And although subconscious and unaware,
This heart will tear and leave no one spared.

Sleeplessness

Frustration sets in.
I need inspiration
To shatter this concrete block that fills my mind.
The emotions are present.
The need is real
To release me from the pain that won't subside.
My eyes are wide.
The moon floats high,
And yet my pages remain unwritten
Of valid thought
Worthy to publish;
Another night sleeplessness calls me victim.