thirteen point five

decembers are the hardest of all.

often i lie down on my back

and let my blood turn cold let my blood

freeze to death.

i've never been less content or more lonely-

there are no more beautiful things.

sometimes i cannot seethe at my misery.

sometimes i look at you and my heart gets so full

sometimes you look back and i crumble down

like dust.

my fingers ache for a touch of your skin.

my heart longs to be loved back.

the winter air smells like cheap old mattresses and

stale death. i cut my wrists and bleed out red

red christmas.

i look inside my throat and claw out veins in disgust.

in the night

sometimes i dream of cradling you in my arms

sometimes i wake up and cry.

(is this what Yeats said was love? that bastard)

love is a laughable thought and yet

i write in the dark on yellow dog-eared pages hoping

love will find me hidden away

in the folds of your flesh one day.

(trivial, trivial

words are blasphemous when love is god)

sometimes I smile quietly at you

sometimes you smile back and slowly,

slowly i break down into tiny little pieces-

digestible, (and perhaps slightly) loveable.

(Yeats always did know what he was talking about.

that bastard)