Seems we’re bred to believe,
love is all we need. They lied to me.
Pillaging the lovelorn,
stretched at the seams.
What love means to me.
This is a lonely space,
but it doesn’t have to be.
Fiction, poems and pleasantries. Love is all we need.
Ostracized, Scapegoat, Failure, Pariah,
live your life or you’ll die here.
You got your claws in me
or maybe it’s the other way around.
The scratches, emblematic of a lost cause,
now you’re grounded.
No one sees it but me.
Your will is so much stronger than mine,
but that got us in trouble plenty of times.
Just remove yourself from yourself,
get back to the world of living things
Take it back by any means.
Leave the view over shoulder.
Rear view and scenery,
the only life we knew.
I’m addicted to you,
can’t you see how that’s true?
All that we’ve been through,
how do I know who I am
I am just ‘me’
and that’s scary as hell.
and make yourself well
The door closes behind you.
What would it take for us to
run away from here?
When you were adored
Voice like a conscious cord,
bound to necks,
your last breath torn.
…so run away
with all that’s left.
That’s what I want.
You’d hold my head
I’d cry for you,
Cry out to you
these last moments
weren’t meant for two.
Deep into the splintered void- where the days of our youth were made.
Our unfamiliar waves cast shades of rain,
now depraved- with no more or less from what was saved.
Floundering under frosted skies,
fleshed into salt from tired eyes.
Peered out into the open road and then threw out everything I owned.
It’s just not easy to talk to you- to look at you, and to only think of two
once the world falls away. What happens when you leave?
The novelty wore off, somehow we made it through the night anyway.
…and numbered days;
Tears blur through these eyes- perennially on the receiving end.
Slipping past the conscious mind
the remains of a conscience friend.
This hurts you more than me… but I have stared down this mirror before.
Suppose the sheen outlasted you.
What love can do.
But it steals the night too.
The morning leaves more uprooted, coffee grounds and drool,
wiped away with only bloodshot eyes to attend to.
Enough to make a difference when I stroked my hair- brittle and falling to the floor.
How pretty I must look in my old age…
It used to be different, staring out the window somewhere around 6th period Chemistry.
What became of me?
The fantasies created aren’t guaranteed.
The phosphor mild under the fluorescence and arid smell stimulating my need to flee.