Begin to End 

They want you to do what’s best for you until that best excludes them, leaves them behind, or can’t be satisfied by just them. When you need more because everything you had is destroying you, so you have no option but to start over or die as more pieces of yourself are razored away into faux stretch marks. When your own hands need to be left behind because they leave marks of darkness across your “perfect skin”, and your mind needs to be left behind because it tells you everyday you’ll never make it without jumping off the edge, without burning everything around you to the ground, or without watching as everything melts like crayons under the Las Vegas Sun. 

Bleeding until it’s all mixed. Into something beautiful? Something abstract? Something that hardens and becomes twisted from the original rainbow of beauty? The most beautiful things can turn into something you don’t recognize when the damage becomes too much, when the paper holding it together weakens, the beauty leaks out, oils stain the paper, even when what made it beautiful is gone, it’s never forgotten. How can it be when that’s the only reason it was ever wanted. 

What is this twisted thing, feet dangling, hands gripping the rail, mind miles down searching the ground for answers never found. How long to hit rock bottom, to begin again or embrace the end. To rise again or leave the splatter of color trailing into the sea and soaking the fallen leaves. 

Don’t want the world to know I’m by myself…don’t want the world to know I’m on your shelf…There’s no coloring around us anymore

– Coloring by Kevin Garrett

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Compulsion

I can feel you, right above my skin, the warmth

of your need makes me shake a spearmint

breeze, that hollow ache is there, in the pit

of my stomach, waiting to be filled by you over

and over again. I close my eyes, darkness giving way

to images of you caressing me. The smell of your

skin, the taste of the sheets, my hands reach out, wishing

you were within reach. I feel the tightness release and

tighten again, wanting something to hold onto. Imagining

the moan you would make, brings my own, it’s been torture.

Images of things I haven’t yet seen plague me, raise my

curiosity like the arch I want you to put in my back. A

few touches have me scorched. Any time I remember

where your hands met skin, it sweats, burns even. I

feel it like a trail of hard earned sweat running

between my breasts and into my navel. I feel it

like hands pressed against my hips to keep me

angled just right on the bed. My thighs

shake, remembering the sight of your

head between them, imagining the

feeling of what could have come

from those lips. My toes point

giving me more movement

to arch, to reach you, to

reach what I want to

feel; to release.

Might As Well

be alone. Because what is the point?

People swear they love you, but when

you’re down

and out

it’s only you, you can turn to. When

your back is against the wall, and you’re

looking for someone to break

your fall, just to realize they stole the grass

to help soften the blow.

Confused by the love people claim they feel,

when anytime there’s a problem, they can’t heel.

If you, gotta do it all on your own, you might as well

be all alone.

Why stress yourself with the problems of someone else,

when they’re one of the reasons, your life got mess?

How important are they, to suck your joy, and spit on

your hope, with no recourse?

Might as well be alone.

 

False Pictures

The dream began with the flashing of a smile, hope pressed between tongue and cheek. a vision of deep brown. The pressing of chocolate and warmed honey, seeping into pieces that haven’t seen light. The stems caress, releasing the smell of wanton need, colors dripping upon the canvas, drops splashing, trailing along the curves. Between the land and the sea, what was found was again lost to me. Between the waves and the bed, the dream was swept away. Lost, pulled into the deep, curiosity, lack of direction pulled; until it was just too deep.

I can’t talk to you anymore, it seems to be at, but to a wall not a person, and my time seems lost. I wonder more and more, about time cashed in, never to be seen again. Maybe we were friends, or two sinners making excuses for the things we did. I sought the same thing, and lose it in the hope of what could be, never seeing what is until the thrumming of need becomes a docile pitter patter, lost rhythms into silent beats.

Questions

Who are you to seek understanding from others when

you have none for your self. To ask someone to wait until

—  are ready to commit. Why bother with the questions or

—r promises of change, knowing it’s a façade to keep

—r pain at bay.

Do the drugs feel better than her love? Fill

a space you can’t seem to fill, for real? That temporary high, the

smoke, the snort, the needle, the pill. Was it better than her

hands rubbing, caressing, giving you something real?

Will it be worth losing her, worth the lies, and secrets, knowing

you broke the deal.

Does it feel right, knowing you keep things from her, when the goal

is to be come o n e. Or in your mind is it just an empty shotgun.

Is her heart as cold as you think, if it is why do you bother giving her

your own, when you think she has nothing to give you in return.

Do you think she will stay? That love is enough for her to turn her

eyes the other way.

Mistaken

All you wanted was for someone to love you for you, but you hid behind the make up of someone well put together, lied with your eyes, with secrets; the words unspoken. What you needed, you received, still not enough for you to leave the past to die, falling to your knees, you let the beast ride, tumbling from the path where you wanted to be, the blindness, blood loss, mental fatigue led you to crawl upon the brambles.

Her voice spoke softly, her hands caressed, attempted to pull you, wipe your eyes, allow your head to rest upon her breast. Just for you to wake, pull at her hair, enter her mouth and yoke her heart from it’s strings. Starved you feed, mind in a haze, knowing only that you wish to be full; that she makes you full.

Not enough, you take her eyes, even as she holds sight for the end of your journey, who you could be, would be if you changed course, let go of the beast, and walked on your own two feet. Not enough, your hands in her womb, the life she was ready to give, you pull until a tunnel of life sheds a skin. Like a rabid thing, you drink until there is no yoke.

Your 4 eyes, belly full of life, those feet you couldn’t stand on, gain strength. How could they not.

The Pressure

to always have to explain the questions that were never asked,

but the attitude I felt, the backlash, the reclusive nature of the dream.

to repeat why love is given, and how happiness has no figure yet,

it’s never enough, albeit when it’s over that’s all one ever wants.

to say it’s okay even when it’s not because the mind is a terrible

thing to hurt, waste, deceive, and yet you deceived me.

to not give up every time you overreacted and sucked the air from

my lungs, to replace with frustration and strangulation.

to lying in bed with saline painting new paths, almost

engraving over the old one’s. New boos old news.

to letting go when saying the truth is no longer enough, when

all the words mean nothing, because the actions are stuck.

to asking over and over, what do you want, and patiently waiting

for an answer that was “I don’t know”.

to sitting up and hearing your dreams, speaking of plans, and watching

you do absolutely nothing.

to strain, that ache and pull, a familiar friend, a friend I didn’t

want to ever see or feel again.

to the corruption of love, to the pressure.

 

Bearing Fruit

I wandered into you, seeking a place to

lay my head, a harbor to dock my

soul, a ground, sturdy enough to

grow my roots, I felt my way through

weeds, traveled un-tarred roads, fell

into bramble patches that scarred the

depths of my soul. So much so, my

nomadic roots cannibalized tears to make

dew in starved lands.

 

You saw my journey, roots hanging by

fibers, some dried to bone, you took the

sheers and preened them off, made room for

new roots, spoke life, shed love, watched it gather,

and gave nourishment to many times refurbished

joints. Laid with me a porous sponge. Said you would

bury your doubts, and fears, pray for something new, more

fresh, clean, something to build you when you

eat.

 

Fears and doubts soaked into my roots, mixed

with the harshness created from the roaming

genes. Attacked by antibodies, wrapped and

swallowed whole, those fears lost, the doubts

were re-purposed into dreams, not deferred but

renewed. I waited for the first  bud, and lost

leaves, shaking, anxious, waiting for you to see

the expected fruit.

 

You ran your hands through, felt the smooth

skin, admired the shine and give, you plucked your

choice, said it resembled a lasting sin, took a bite, closed

your eyes, reminisced, and saw new beginnings. Fear to

hope, while thoughts of death spoke now to food for your

soul. Your thumb and forefinger met, separated by thin

cased fluid you gifted to flow, I watched the thought, saw

it grow, knew I would stay watered, you needed the fruit.

You needed to be whole.

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