You do to me what winter does to garden geraniums.
Frost does not exist on purpose.
It does not intend to puncture cell walls.
It just does. It just is.
As do I. As are you.

You do to me what oxycontin does to the heart.
Oh, my zenith of euphoria, the absence of your pleasure
haunts me until nothing remains to be haunted.
You caress me raw with your fingertips.
Your warmth burns hot as ice on my soul.

You do to me what chefs do to onions.
What farmland does to streams.
What sunshine does to skin.
What wealth does to man.
What maggots do to rotting wounds.
What pictures do to moments.

You do to me what rats in glue traps do to themselves.

I wish you could have my body for a day
I wish you could borrow my brain
I don’t think that
you
Would think of me the same
if you could know my Pain

I wish you could have my
Dreams for one night
I wish you could know what
Night Terrors truly a felt like

The only reason that I’m still alive
Is because you’d be so *******
Sad
if I died.


The o my eeason

When I was in kindergarten we had a party and
I ate too much candy.
My stomach ached and
I didn’t know why.
It ruined the party for me.
I remember crouching in the corner confused,
Closing my eyes, imagining that I could
Peer deep inside of myself.
It was then that I came to the childish conclusion that there was a ghost inside of me.
That’s what was causing the pain.
I focused my mind on wishing the ghost away.
I might have even prayed.
Until eventually the pain subsided and the ghost went away

I grew older, eventually, and realized that none of that was real.

Then I grew older still, slowly, and realized that it was all true after all.
That the ghost inside of me was real.
That it never left.

She had no mirrors in her house when I met her so
Ourselves we never could see.
But I knew that I loved her.
And she knew that she loved me.

I’ve finally realized
what it is to be an American,
I think.

To gaze upon all this progress,
to live within the midst of all this cleverness
and wealth,
and without a dollar
in your pocket
to finally start asking yourself those overwhelmingly obvious questions:

what was all this for?
To what greater purpose did I suffer so much?
…and why?

That man
Bipolar type 1

with all those countless
razor blade scars
turned out to be not very well
emotionally adjusted?
Kind of a self-involved *******?

Who could have ******* guessed!?
Meanwhile,
how’s your psychology PhD going?

I’m not a monster
just because
I broke your heart.

You broke mine too.