Tried drawing the cliffs,

The painting lacked beauty, color,

Poor in perspective.

The colors stain skin,

My apron needs a wash, too.

beauty of painting.

Teacher's beauty, hurts.

Colors of her hair, her skirt,

Painting for her, pain.

I know you call her home, but tell me, is she where your hands live or your heart?

Do the constellations littering your irises mirror hers or is it your mouth mirroring the freckles of her skin?

Is it her words that make your skin crawl towards hers or her fingers that raise the feathery down from the back of your neck?

Is she the oxygen that your lungs pull to feed your heart or the adrenaline that pushes it to work in overdrive?

Is she the breath or what makes your breath catch?

Is she the pen on the paper or the words that begged to be released?

Is she the cathedral or the prayer?

The incantation or the spell the words cast?

Is she the sky that holds the light or the stars themselves, always there even when they can’t be seen?

The match that kickstarts the destruction or the already blazing fire?

Is she the caress or the feeling that lingers after it’s over?

The skin or the mind?

The magnetic pull or the place where you stand?

The speed or the lull?

Or is it both?

Is there really any difference to you?

And one last question.

Is it me or am I her?

The lights sped by, and though I had the heat on high, I cracked the window because I knew the memories would come flooding. And it was in this moment that I realized that after months of apologizing to everyone for everything you had made me into, I had forgotten to thank you. Because with the heat pouring in simultaneously with the night flurries I remembered that though I never said that I loved you, that one night you kissed my forehead and told me you had a heart full of me. And as the winter night and the hot air pumping from the vents hit me all at once I thought what it must have been like for you to swear that that was all a lie. And in this moment I realized that you hadn’t made me into something. You had broken me so that when my wings healed they would beat harder. And in this moment I realized that I might always be healing and broken, but at least now I was free.

And I know it’s not really fair of me, but there’s some deep down part of me that hopes that with your face buried in my neck that the only thing you could think was that this was the right one. That nothing else would ever match that feeling of your thumb running across the small of my back. That I had broke you for everyone else. And I know it’s not fair, so I’ll probably never tell you. But I still think it. And I still hope I’m your one and only enough. I still hope you can’t forget your skin on my skin.

There’s a stinging on my lips, a bitterness on my tongue, a pulsating, tearing of the flesh as I dig my nails into my palms each time I see you smile my way. That casual, endearing smile. That smile that tells me and the whole world around you that you love me. That smile that first took ahold of me, and made me feel what everyone I knew spoke of, but I didn’t believe it truly existed.

You’re still the same one, still dress the same in your smart classy suits, your shoes so perfectly matched. Your hair still tousled in an “I don’t care” kind of way, but you really do.

We both know you do.

You touch me on the small of my back, pull me in and tell me how much you love me. And I smile like I always have- just not as deeply. Yes, everything is still the same, and yet now it’s not. I watch you as you laugh with those around you, the same thin lines crinkling around your soft eyes. The soft, pale eyes I fell so in love with across that crackled pavement in the city that care forgot.

You’re still the same, yes, but I’m not.

Ah the power of knowing, we all want it and seek it out, but sometimes when we get ahold of it, we want so desperately for it to go away. We wonder would our lives be back to how they were if we never knew the truth? Could we go back to carelessly rolling in between the sheets, kissing each other’s flesh, feeling that lip quivering grin when your name is spoken? Could we go back to believing those three little words actually mean something true?

But now they fall flat on ears that refuse to listen. Refuse to believe. Every word that has ever fallen from your silky lips has landed on mine with a burning acidity now.

A fool. A blind fool.

I force a smile at those trying to make small talk, I tell them how happy we are together, how in love. I smile back at you, although I can feel a hand crushing my throat. I try not to gasp.

Lies.

That’s what ruins our happiness in some way or another. That’s what crushes our ability to believe such pure emotions exist. I know about your lies.

I sip my drink, smile, give them the facade that everything is fine, although I’m on the verge of screaming what I know. But I can’t. It comes to the surface time and time again, but stops, pushed back deep inside to crumble and rot. I don’t understand. It eats me now from the inside, only glimpsing the world through my glassy, bleak stare. It comes forth, barely discrete, in my snide remarks, hinting to you what I know, only to retreat, defeated, but growing even more when it’s met with a dismissal. If I speak, if I say what I truly know, will my last perfect little lie of hope for the tarnished past no longer exist?

I bite my lips and feel them swelter into a sting, the bitterness on my tongue growing, a pulsating, tearing of the flesh as I dig my nails into my palms each time I see you smile my way.

Liar. That’s what I tell myself. That’s all we are. Liars.

The sky was flooding.

I opened the window because the wind looked too pretty to leave it outside.

Or was it my eyes?

My eyes were flooding.

And my breath looked so pretty.

And my lungs said to let my breath in.

But my mouth declined.

God came to me one night

and said i’m reading your fucked up poems

don’t you think your kinda sugar coating this stuff, gag head?

if your gonna write filth

you need to get a little more sex-centric

i like it raw

with hella lottsa kink

lottsa squealing

more squirting

blood tears mucous saliva

gag why don’t ya

and remember assholes are used relatively infrequently

so don’t get all hygienic on me

what did you think they are for the rest of the time

besides what’s a little shit between friends

and what the hell do you think i sent the devil for

the little bitch

PS

if you really wanna be reborn

slide up in that goddess uterus

and you’ll be surprised

how much better you’ll feel

im God for god’s sake

i already thought of every

despicable

voluptuous

deliciously disgusting

twisted

tortuous

tormented

sick thing

you could possibly wanna do

so get the fuck on with it

Here I wonder

Why none of my friends

Message me back

They give me light

I give them black

I give them everything

To be

The pessimist’s exact

I give them cancer

To dwell through night

I give them wrong

I give, alright?

I give, I give the wrong stuff

Like dealers pure

To fentanyl rough

Sure, hearted demons creepin’

Leap at the unknown

This demons leapin

At the narcissist’s throne

Adored, thank the Lord

I’m thrown overboard

Into the swimming seas

Anchors for knees

Yet I bow

For lust

For love

For sin

For crucifix

For infotainment greed

Snapshot

Pictures through a lens,

captured for eternity,

as I have, your heart.

Trails

Connecting paths meet,

intersecting life's pathway;

the trail stops with us.

Choices

Choices made each day,

choices we choose to follow,

choices made for life.

Traces

Outlining one's life,

a circle over circles,

inside ... redemption.

After-Ever

If such a thing is ...

let it be more of ever,

the before, chokes me.

**********************

As with all I put here: In The

Forgotten Files ... it appears as

originally done. No edits.

No shortcuts.

Originally Written:

5/12/2010

12:05 - 12:20 a.m.