It’s up for existential debate, whether or not
we’re here for a reason or stranded here just to rot.
Leisurely Lonesomes, a sunrise kingdom unfolding.
a delicate flower, nuclei destined forever in the forest.
Do-or-die sentiments, sediment ready to rise.
Blood pact suicide, toes in the sand in the tide.
We’re only in focus when we start to succeed.
congratulations and shaking hands to hands shaking in sleep.
Panic attack, borderline personality disorder, solace in silence.
Every day, a soldier is dying, PTSD from maturing too fast.
I’ve been told to collide.
with my demon’s flashback, detachment, paranoia, decide.
what to do with yourself, paranormal dishevelment.
Clash encounter to delusion like an asteroid belt
entering Earth, phenomena avoided like hell.
Poised to no end, with no end to foretell.
Such a pity, holy shit, shame we all have stories to tell.
A hundred ears, nobody listens, pouring whiskey in wells.
swirling it in the glass, a little tornado cyclone.
Perhaps we tell it with such hope, rehearsed, to speak it with ease.
Oh, how we change for others, sleep with our demons for free.
Beelzebub pedigree, honeybee to a wasp
Fur Elise, Elysium waits with alyssum in her palm.
This suggests to me what I’ve known all along,
the kiss of death, pain is strength, literally every song.
Diet plan, exercise, what’s your secret to looking your best?
Don’t eat for days, ha-ha. Pause. I said it in jest.
Capricorn, Libra, maelstrom pathogen, fetal position
battle ballistic, garrison mission, administer oil in my cannabis christen.
cataclysmic mushroom smoke.
Cultured difference aside,
there’s more to living, so to speak, than living to die.
Unambiguous chameleon, dressed in camo fatigue,
in his pavilion that the big wolf blows at until he can barely breathe,
grow in a melting pot, petri dish human experiment,
give him truancies, periods of time where truth is empirical,
hold me a second.
Let’s grow apart, don’t second guess it.
Stare at me like a tornado looks at Tulsa and Edmond,
then

To the person who will love me next, I’m sorry.

I must apologize in advance if, one day, my words have the power to kindle a fire upon your lips, causing electric sensations to render your tongue temporarily numb. Witnessing your cheeks blush coyly, a feverish hue, and experiencing a seemingly insatiable hunger as intoxicated butterflies seek their escape, only to be met with a sudden breakdown in communication. Days, weeks, and months pass with nothing but white noise, while soldiers continue to transmit their affirmatives, but the channel remains lifeless. Static and hellfire- It’s fading away.

I apologize if you ever find yourself compelled to profess your love for me repeatedly. It’s frustrating when my words fail to reach you, and my love falls short of warming your heart. It feels as if your heart resides in a perpetual winter, while the warmth of the summer solstice remains trapped deep within my gaze.

I find myself shedding tears because I don’t let myself to let it all out. My deepest desire is to envelop you with warmth and comfort. I’m truly sorry that, when you express your feelings, there’s no reciprocation, no acknowledgment, and it seems like your words are falling on deaf ears. It’s as if your ears receive the words, but your mouth offers no response from your vocal cords—a silence, like a black hole absorbing all sound.

My primary mode of communication becomes manifest in the gentle kisses I share with you, as I strive to convey my emotions. I hope you can hold onto those moments and understand that my intentions are sincere- truly sincere. I apologize if your trust in me wavers; this is an aspect of myself that I’m actively working to change. I hope to never sense your judgment in your body language, and for it to weigh heavily on me.

The fear of losing you gnaws at me, like a trapped coyote. Prompting me to scramble to fix things, often at the cost of my own identity and sanity. I’ve been conditioned by past experiences that whatever I do never quite measures up, and it’s a heavy burden to carry- one I add that I never have to let you carry.

There’s a certain “enough” embedded in the art of love letters and meticulously noted dates, like remembering your mother’s birthday or inquiring about your happiness, all while grappling with the unsettling paradox of my own unhappiness. It’s like an endless loop of self-inflicted torment, a recurring nightmare that thrives on my anxiety. This anxiety, in turn, nourishes my heartache, and my heartache saps the strength from my muscles, leaving me powerless in my own struggle.

You, though, my dear, seem almost too perfect, and if history decides to replay itself, I fear the unvarnished truth may ultimately be my undoing. My history feels like a chemistry class, with a stern teacher constantly reminding me not to toy with fire.
You know, my vulnerability is a bit like trying to place a glass cover on a smartphone screen, and those tiny specks of dust that you can barely see? Well, those are your words and reactions, sticking right to the surface of the very thing I’m trying to protect. Think of my emotions as having a touch of OCD. They’re spotless. Your words are like those specks of dust, and I’m the phone screen, inexplicably prone to attracting dirt and oil. So, handling me might require some extra effort, like until your neck hurts and your pores start to sweat.

Please, understand that I might need us to delve deep before I can admit that I’m new to all this. I’ve never done this before, and when you leave, it feels like my soul’s sobbing, but I don’t quite know how to sing it lullabies, and I don’t quite want to live by that. I won’t pretend I’ll be the easiest person to love. I never had too many good examples to follow; the ones I had were from a broken template, discarded due to errors. A prototype thrown away. I’m sorry for any complications that might bring, or any part of my machinery that fails. I’m sorry. 

Wish it would stop.
Watch the laundry spin and then sit on a box.
circular sleep. daydream while I cry.
kill me at dawn, sing silent night –
no. hum at my grave
dig me up. stop. then kiss my remains
skeletons out of the closet.
my bones here to stay
shapeshifting gravediggers.
I’m barely awake
you talk me alive, I sleep when I yawn
told me to keep eyes closed three eternities long
so she goes again, another fish in the sea
another piece of driftwood breaking off into pieces
tailbaiting freshwater species. as he hums Für Elise
you don’t mean something to me.
just need something to break
defensive in particular.
relationship balled into shape
from wheatgrass, liquor, deafness and argument’s sake
my wedding vows will start off in malaise
“afraid my depression will slowly degrade you”
in love and in sickness, in health, and inept
sugarcoat your love with your honey-colored flesh
otherworldly sex, Martian soil beneath ourselves
who am I kidding. selfish stargazer lost in himself
probably would decline if you offered me help
I feel how an author thinks when he writes in italics.
how? a quiet whisper while being slightly sarcastic
half winter, springtime, March solstice
Mars rover, enzymes. black liquor
God sold us. paths shrinking.
bedtime pillow talk, fact checking.
more liquor store drifting.
4.50. 6 oz flask dangled in sleeve
use disease to reprieve from society as a daily retreat.
we’ve become emotionless whatever we do.
staring at art, until they tell me to leave.
come back the next day to stare on repeat.
maybe it’s me.
dissecting something that doesn’t exist.
in matrix – a glitch. in reality, Suboxone
coffee-stained marital strips
we go back to a time. nostalgia is a hell of a safety net.
there’s always black liquor here at my side.