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ghost

even the chaos doesn’t distract me enough,
a hundred thousand questions can’t stop me
from torturing myself.
i wanted you.
i wanted you in the way that an addict
wants that hit of whatever gets them
the heaven they think they want.
i wanted to bury myself inside of you,
burrow right into your soul.
i wanted to see what made you,
the good, the bad, the things you hide.
i guess,
in a way,
i did see all that shit.
the light, the dark, the depth,
just, that’s all i could get.
just a view in from the outside,
i hope you are well,
and i hope that you really are as beautiful
as i made you out to be,
inevitably, i’ll think of you,
this isn’t goodbye,
it’s not a see you later,
it’s a graveyard epitaph,
for a living ghost.

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just lie to me.

Just one more fuck up.
Tell me one more lie –
I’ll believe it.
You don’t even know.
You don’t even know.
I’ll fake it so good.
You won’t even know,
that I know,
that you’re lying.
Tell me you want me.
Tell me how beautiful I am
with these goddamn tears
dripping from my eyes.
Touch me like it’s the first time.
Touch me like you want me,
forever and fucking always.
For the love of God,
lie to me, please.
Hold me so tight,
that I’ll believe you won’t leave.
Lie to me so good.
Swear, I’ll believe it.
Take me.
Take all of me.
Take my things.
Just please, don’t leave.
Stay.
Please stay.

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clean.

they see my trash piled up,
spilling its insides to the floor;
my endless stacks of paper,
teetering, toppling, towering;
they look at me and say
“you must not care –
about anything.”
the weight of their words
crush me into the wall
i’ve built for myself.
their disgust buries me,
like the floor,
and i make some excuse,
something about time
and other things,
my brain is screaming,
i’m so overwhelmed.
they’ll leave,
and i’ll clear a space
to hold myself
and rock and rock and rock
until the next person
comes to say,
“you must not care –
about anything.”

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pretty.

he flicks the ashen remains of his cigarette
right into the forever of a gray night,
he’s got a cracked tooth,
‘can see it when his lips hint of a smile,
like they’re doin’ right now.
something that looks a bit like satisfaction,
rests easy on his face.
hands rest against his belt,
like he was born with one hand on his gun
the other on his hip.
the moon’s giving off just enough light,
he can see her once pretty face turning blue.
she looks at him, but her eyes don’t really see
anything.
except maybe a white light,
or just darkness.
depends on what a person believes comes next.
he tilts his head,
listens to her cough, vomit, choke
there’s a needle still strapped to her arm,
but he just watches.
shame, she might’ve been been pretty
if she wasn’t pretty messed up.
shame, she might’ve been someone
if she wasn’t someone who chose drugs
over her own son, from someone’s son.
shame, she would’ve been pretty,
forever,
if she wasn’t so pretty then,
if she wasn’t pretty vulnerable for a five year old,
if she wasn’t pretty depressed for a teenager,
if she wasn’t pretty lonely as a young woman.
if she wasn’t so pretty then,
she could’ve been someone…else.
if he would take a good look,
look at her eyes, clouding over like the moon
that’s watching over them,
maybe he’d see the blue eyes of a little girl,
could be his little girl,
if he had a little girl,
he’s just got boys.
so maybe that’s why he can’t see her
except through the eye of a needle.
he could have saved her life.
maybe he could have changed her life,
but he believes that she made a choice.
he believes she chose this life –
nothing could change his mind.
there’s a siren somewhere in the background,
theme music for a b-movie ending,
she’ll be happy now, right –
she can shoot up with Jesus,
maybe he’ll save her.
maybe if she makes it to Heaven.
seems like she’s already been to Hell.
be free, little bird, a shadow whispers.
he shakes his head at the shell of her,
here comes the ambulance,
snapping on blue gloves –
nitrile, not latex.
it’s too late to take it away,
but they do anyway.
bagged.
tagged.
evidence.
of another overdose.
they will carry his burden for him,
the one he refuses to take part of.
they know he could have saved her.
but the magic potion costs too much
and of course, she deserved it.
just like she did when she was five.
and seventeen.
and twenty-three.
because she was too pretty,
and then pretty fucked up.
so he watches them zip her up,
in a black bag.
he could have saved her.

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wolves.

Logically, rationally – she is sound
Half of her brain understands logic
It listens to reason,
It rationalizes quite well.
But.
The.
Other.
Half.
Is.
Chaos.
It is churning,
ocean waves in a hurricane,
tornado on a Kansas plain.
Fire waiting for oxygen;
a backdraft waiting to happen.
There is no reason or logic;
nothing even remotely rational
on the other half of her brain.
It is creeping blackness,
shards of shadows,
a hundred spider webs,
sticky and tangling.
Cold, calculating, chaotic
cruel, relentless, chasmic.
It is this side that creates
distance and disdain,
hate, void, and pain.
Chess moves, scrabble words,
meditation and yoga,
repetition, repetition, repetition,
Until she can reason with demons,
and rationalize with the devil.

 

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Self.

Fingernails up an arm,
down an arm.
red lines, then nothing.
Head banging into hands,
not so hard as to damage,
but to say stupid, stupid, stupid.
A brain that won’t work right,
a mind that won’t stop,
words that circle, in circles.
Breathing is an art,
regret is a black mark,
panic is the cause.
Control is the craving,
an addiction, but not quite.
You can’t cure an addiction.
Arms hug me tight –
You are okay and fine
Wait, those arms are mine.