Pitch dark nights

filled with endless cries

Massive smog curtains

cover puffy soot eyes.

Moon snarls

like a demon of night

nocturnal shadow realm

cemetery of stars.

Translucent gauze

covers mystic skies.

I hide from myself

can’t see my shadows

spectral spirits hover

imprisoning me

by looming threat,

moon illuminated

by malignance.

Even my dreams

have murky colors

nightmares of doom.

But I am not alone

in the blackest of nights

in just a few hours

I’ll see mo(u)rning.

In the middle of the night

The wretched truth must be disclosed

Own it bitch, you reap what you sow

There will be no hiding behind makeup,

Or a padded bra or a smile

Vulnerable, exposed. Nerve endings raw

I can't lie anymore, not even to myself

Yesterday's eyeliner is smeared on my cheek

My hair is a tangled, knotted mess

There are bruises on my bare legs

More scars than I can count

My nightgown is frayed on my thighs

I'm a fucking wreck, man made disaster

I'm on a mission to self destruct

Supernova, I'm about to implode

I'll take any motherfucker down with me

who's dumb enough to come along?

This bottle is my most faithful lover,

At least until its emptier than I am

Useless now - I'll toss it in the street

The glass breaking - that my favorite sound

Guess what?

There's a million bottles more

For this worthless little whore

What do I smoke?

Well, sweetheart, what do you got?

When you've snorted snowy lines off strangers

When it's easier to give up your body than your name

When you wake up half dead in the afternoon and you don't know where the fuck you are

When you walk deserted streets at 3am

When you leave your doors unlocked while you're gone

When you drive with your eyes closed

Nah, I won't kill myself,

suicide ain't for me

But if I keep this shit up,

I'll be dead before too long

According to my high school physics textbook, 

Sound will not travel without something to travel through.

The atmosphere, the ocean, even a wall will do.

(Such is why space is always so quiet.)

According to my high school experience,

Misery will not arrive without silence to travel through.

The evening, the morning, even the afternoon will do.

(Such is why nighttime is always so grim.)

There is something about the moment 

The entire world turns in for the night

That seems to turn something on inside me.

This is when the whispers start.

Good-for-nothing, they call.

Screw-up. Lazy. Idiot.

They build in my chest and scream silently,

Buzzing like a swarm of wasps under my skin.

They dig my nails into my palms

Grind my teeth like millstones

Make me consider quieting the cacophony

By removing the life they need to travel through.

I never did, though.

Instead, I followed the world's advice

And turned in for the night-

Turned into a thoughtless body 

Wrapped in sheets and blankets and dreams.

I turned up the volume on life,

In friends' chatter and teachers' droning,

Trucks on the pavement and birds in the trees:

The surround-sound of the universe.

Until, of course,

The next night.

(According to my high school English textbook,

Edgar Allen Poe found the beauty in pain

And the art in the melancholic. 

He lived to forty and died in the night.)

Eyes flicker and panic

Under a blanket of darkness

Deepest desires surface

Breathe and feed

Bastardizing my thoughts and prayers

Pictures 

The most crazed and sensual 

Combination of unrecognized desires

Pure raw and unadulterated

And fleeting as the...

What was I saying?

At 4 AM

When even sleeping pills won't let me rest

I wonder

Would they even notice

If I was gone?

I wonder

If I died,

How long would it take

For them to notice?

I wonder

Does anyone even notice me?

The voices then strike,

Telling me that my supposed

"Friends"

Hate me,

That the skin on my arms is too pure,

That it should become

as broken as the rest of me.

4 AM adds red lightning bracelets

To the already very long list

Of imperfections

Leaving only one thing from before:

The voices' final echoes

"No one would know."

What's over there?

What is watching me?

I want to ask "who's there?"

But that would be stupid

Only soon to be dead people ask questions out loud

So I burrow my head

Make sure no body part is obvious

All hidden under a blanket

This is ridiculous I think

But yet I'm too scared to leave

It's funny because I already know the phantom

It's me

In the dark of night,

I wake with a fright.

Thoughts of foregone,

Will haunt me until dawn.

Wish I may, wish I might,

To rid of them tonight.

But a can't,

So I shan't.

The memories.. emotions,

drowning me in layers of choking tribulations.

Gasping, panting and silently crying out,

I pray to anyone who will hear my shout.

When the arms of another finally embrace me,

Answering my call with murmurs of assurance and comfort,

I can finally be at peace.

Let the warmth wash over me,

shield me from the pain and misery,

Cover me in silken delight.

Let the nightmares melt away, along with the anguish, worry and stress.

Then let the sandman take me away.

As the clouds progress steadily through the night

The stars, including Orion's belt, begin to reveal

The corrupt air of the darkness screams riskiness

Traffic begins to subside

While the creatures of the night intensify

Frogs croak by the creek  

Crickets chirp heard but unseen

Chilled air raises the hair on my thin arms 

While the perplexing moon seems to sit all alone

The pot-bellied bird only discloses itself briefly

Meanwhile the brood is concealed

After midnight all movement has significantly dwindled

And there is not much to be said 

Anticipating the life of the dawn

We simply proceed to bed

It's that time again

That time of night- or is it day?- when my mind is wandering aimlessly

But what if it isn't aimless.

What if she's talking to me because this is the only time she has alone with me.

Others have always managed to make me feel lonely even while I was talking to them, but I don't want her to feel that way - so I'll listen.

Do you love me...? she questions aloud. 

Well... what is love? I've always believed that it is an emotion that both the id and the ego share. That it's so powerful because there are so few things you feel with your entire body and self. It has such magnitude because it's not instinctual-it's purely emotional. But I've never really reacted based off of how my id or ego was feeling. I've only ever lived out the things my superego asked me to do. 

We think back on the times we sat quietly in the pew as the preacher droned on and on. We felt guilty for being there; guilty to my mother and the religion because we were questioning its legitimacy, but, also, guilty to ourselves for not being bold enough to speak up about not wanting to be there. So we kept quiet, as quiet as possible for as long as possible so as not to raise suspicion. Not that anyone even cared to suspect anything. The sat just as quietly in the pew, but always had something to say about what was said after service ended, whereas we were never listening. We wanted to be, but we just couldn't. I couldn't.   

And we also remember the friends we thought we had. The fact that we would go along with what they asked because they asked. It was as simple as that. All they had to do was ask and we'd come running because we liked them, but it took us a while to realize it wasn't reciprocal. Of course, we knew all along (we're intelligent and analytical, so it wasn't that hard to see how prevalent this behavior was among most of the people we called "friends"), but we decided to ignore it and keep running. Our energy was exhausted to the point that we couldn't run anymore. The ones who really didn't care continued not to, but there were some who managed to gain some sense of respect for us as we went along and were angry at the thought that I was finally speaking up. But I don't care. They had taken too much for me to care anymore. 

But she was softer and gentler than me so she was able to feel something. We both felt the hurt and regret from being used, but I was the one who hated that I couldn't make these one-sided relationships work. She tried to comfort me as best she could. I knew she loved me, and I sat there quietly thinking, she asks again do you love me?

The one thing we've had the most trouble with was our sexuality. She knew all along that we were capable of loving any and everybody, but I was scarred. Because the people around me told me that only one expression of one's sexuality was acceptable, I hid more. I tried to be like them, attacking people (knowing that they didn't need it) and refusing to be open to understanding people (knowing that that was all they were asking for) because I was a coward. But, again, she was patient with me. She waited until my mind was open enough to accepting every person that exists and open enough to allow myself to be one of these people. She waited for me to open my eyes enough to see people as just that, people. Most importantly, she waited until my heart was open to allowing others to love me. She helped me realize that someone else's sexuality is of no concern to me, and she helped me realize how courageous being marginalized, and possibly ostracized, can be.  

I think of all of these things.

I guess the answer to her question is... no. I don't love her. I can't, not now.

But I'm trying to.

I'm trying to get to the place where I love her because I know she's always loved me. I feel bad for being one of those people that hasn't reciprocated the love she's given me because she's given so much, but I want to show her that I can, and that I will. 

I will love you...