day

he's standing right behind you, with a balloon and a gun. there's magic in his eyes and ennui on his lips. he wants you to know he cares very little. it's just an orchestra in his brain. he's almost positive you're the crescendo. how long can he keep this going? how long can he keep you in theoretical suspense? he possibly feels the same way you do but enjoys it. his songs are innumerable. his acts are finite. it ends when you do. or when you end him.
stop pawing at it and man up. rip the throat and enter. there will be a day to remember.

show

your little room and your little pictures hide your wounds. instead of your words i hear your nails scrape against the earth. i have felt your eyes. your indifference is boring. your anger is coddled. you're neither sly nor intriguing. but you are appetizing. and so you will learn that i have many uses. you've had one of the good ones. now let me show you how horrible the others can be..

sober

who wants to be on crutches their entire life? who wants to end up bored with their own mind? it's like escaping into a prison of your own choosing. even the dirtiest of sponges need a good rinsing and drying. or else it rots from the inside out. it's called failure. and even if no one sees, you cant escape your own stench. i like my indulgences to be just that. if it becomes more frequent than not, it no longer becomes highs and lows, it becomes today and tomorrow. acceptance doesn't abolish the action. and action does not abolish perception. its easy to create waves in your ebbing tide pool. vilify yourself. emulate yourself. bury yourself. dragging their cornea across the paper is the only way they can feel the grit of your narratives. and even if a few of them manage to blow away the smoke and see right through your two way mirrors, well then, they are already a part of the piece of you that you will never own.

clean

and one by one they fall. so dry and brittle are the pieces, the mesa, the meta and pro. they've been dead for months. cramped in the corner of the cupboard. the thought of them makes me sick. as does the thought of you. only difference is, the mess their invasion in my life has made is easily cleaned by towels and bleaching sprays. i've yet to find a substance strong enough to wipe clean any residue you've left behind that doesn't do any permanent harm or leave those annoying streaks you can see clearly in the sun. it's just plain embarrassing when company comes over. but who am I kidding? there's no company. not with all these dead bees and dead feelings all over the place. no no no this wont do at all! so i weigh my options. i consider the realistic facts instead of the clouded misguided blame i tend to shower in. the outline and movement is just clear enough to make out but.. loch ness? big foot? my truth? it's a shame i study an analyze something that merits no credits. hmmmph. moving on..

stream

it's clear the grime will fall away easily. using one tool of filth to clean a dirtier one is surprisingly effective. there is a small path, recently cleared of debris that i must stray from. surges of energy break my cycle, sweat beads down my face back and boobs. the violence is interrupted. i pray this is a small inconvenience and hope that my entertainment resumes shortly. cloudy. scalding. peeling. i need something more intrusive to clean between the blades. this process is necessary to continue my fine tuned ritual of stripping, ripping, tearing; pulling like a rack; smoothing tying twisting drying.

walking

the colors just barely reached my toes. i felt robbed of my punishment. this is where i suffer in sections. microscopic bits of embarrassment. the sweat, the piles of clothes, the collections of empty malt liquor cans. these aren't badges of honor or failure; they're the building blocks, the foundation on which i build my future empire to the stars on. your accusations are totally founded and completely disregarded. no one likes a tattle tale. that's why i only did him the one time. that spring in my step? gravity. don't be surprised when it glistens in the sun. don't be surprised when it leaves without a sound. don't be shocked when it shares the same demons. it's you.

your

your words are half the story. your stories are half the truth. i'm partial to half the story. i'm half of the partial truth. i fully believe your half. and partially hate your truth.

you're pretty sneaky. you use technology like a doggy door to my good graces. i don't give a fuck about little efforts when they're smashed by your overwhelming cowardice. you use logic to hide your crumbling confidence. anger to hide your disgust. now, were we talking about my indiscretions or yours?

your mustache makes you look like a sexual assailant/serial killer but you're frighteningly more sexy with it. i cant remember the last time you made me cry. i cant remember the last time i thought i couldn't live without you. but i remember the last time we drank beer at your job and tried to find articulated skeletons to buy online. and i remember the time i left your house for another boy. i remember missing you and not regretting it.

you. who the fuck are you. i don't know you or anything around you. i'm guessing neither does anybody else. even if you think they do, they don't. shit, i could be wrong. i don't know what the fuck you think you're saying but you say it pretty well. ha. laughs bouncing off strangers. stick to the basics we know. i'll say less when i know more.

you're the last person that made me make an ultimatum for myself. you're the last drunk i stuck up for for purely selfish reasons. you cast such a comforting and isolated shadow for us i often forget it's mostly the booze and boredom. you're the sweetest asshole i know and a terrible part time friend. i used to like your literal brutality and your cooking. i feel worse than valley trash. fuck, that's sad. 

Timeout. Let me just say trading real sleep for alcohol induced sleep weighs just as heavily in the morning if you spend it staying up late to write stupid shit about boys. Game on..

snuggling in a cold and empty room warmed by you and Whiskey. plans to move to Finland. sloppily narrated bedtime stories. voicemail full of songs about pirates and me being black. crying in front of me. several times. loving and fucking simultaneously. showing me your guns. singing me your songs. tiny fragments of tiny moments. 

tell me how wet i taste when your life's a fucking desert. i'll do the same. its easy to focus on the only warmth in the room. it's just as easy to block the only light blinding your eyes.