tell me, what’s it like to have no soul?
to know you’re a bad person to your core
to know if the Christians are right you’re spending forever in hell, to know the devil waits to greet you, your name on his greasy lips
to know there’s nothing worth saving in you.
to know all you do is tear people down, like they’re your toys
cause it brings you some fucked up joy. what’s it like to know hell awaits,
that there will be no golden gates. do you
feel brave going to your grave? do you still laugh when you see my success?
how’s life with a black hole for a heart? do you feel anything when you tear us apart? do you even see it when we’re sucked in again?
are you proud? is it worth it, you piece of shit?
god says to love your enemies, but when their hobby is destroying me the struggle is real.
I don’t feel sorry for someone who can’t feel.
for Chris Caudill
his dark breathing fills the room,
a fog pulling me under (hormones
are drugs like any other), and I fixate on
the sweat matting his hair to his head and
the starless galaxies behind his wide wild eyes; I should probably be scared, but
adrenaline is an old friend(I’m just
an addict with a pen.)
addict with a pen, reprise
**the phrase addict with a pen belongs to twenty one pilots, who are coincidentally an unbelievable band you should probably check out effective now. :)
I’ve learned I don’t want the embers
that crackle in the back of the room. I want
the white-hot fire spitting sparks at
unsuspecting passerby, so fast and furious
it sucks all the oxygen out of the room: I don’t
want comfort, I don’t want passive. I want passion,
I want a need, I want I couldn’t go another second
without you next to me. I want to leave
a trail of destruction in my wake; I want to leave
your skin red at my touch(what I’m really saying is
I want your love.)
another fucking poem about fire
jealousy is the vine that grows up
between the bricks of our foundation,
seeking the wholes and the cracks, the places
we’re not quite complete. jealousy flowers at
one in the morning, when one of us is asleep.
jealousy spreads like communicable disease,
passed between our lips, leaving angry words on
our lips, unsaid(we both know it’s all in our heads.)
I’m afraid that I’m on a Ferris wheel,
counting the rotations, calculating the angles,
waiting for something to go wrong; keeping an eye
on the other patrons and complaining all day long
but on the day that I get off this ride, I’ll find
that I never stopped to look from the top.
focused on the wrong things, success by any means
I never saw how beautiful life was
if I just stopped and thought.
It’s still raw. They grow new skin
in laboratories and stretch it over old wounds,
but it takes a while for reality to set in.
One touch and this paper pelt
would shred and I think I
would bleed again.
your words fall onto me like raindrops,
soaking me to the skin, running under my clothes
and sticking with me long after the original
contact; think long and hard about what you say,
because I will turn it over and over in my palms
like a geologist searching for imperfections
in a diamond(you may think I’m hard at heart,
but this is just my armor)
the mohs scale
Good god, you loved her, would have torn out your spine for her.
I watched you water the earth with your tears for her;
I watched you tend the flowers she trampled into the dirt
without a look under her feet.
I watched you paint your esophagus with ecstasy and pretend
that was how you felt; I stood by while you washed it down
with every form of ethanol tolerable to man.
And good god, she never looked back,
never looked you up, never looked you in the eyes again.
She knocked back your tears in a shotglass and looked up
through lush lashes at the next boy; she pulled the flowers apart
petal by petal and watched the colors bleed into the ground.
She dragged smoke into her lungs and expelled it as easily
as she expelled you from her life, and felt nothing as acutely
as you felt the scalpel peeling flesh back from your ribs.
You would have given her your very lifeblood if she had asked for it;
her indifference was the only thing that could cut you to the core,
so you ran red like a river that she ignored. I tried to stitch you back up,
but I only had thread. I couldn’t get through your skin,
and the knots I tied only held together for so long;
they fell apart, and so did I, just like you.
You look alive, and that is how I knew
you were the one who would save me. This weather-worn campus
has beaten the majority down, but the wind only
rustles through your hair and makes it stand on end.
Your eyes are bright with amber dreams and mischief,
where ours are dulled by lack of sleep; your smile is a crooked promise,
incomplete, suggesting that futures and love
hide behind your teeth. you are strong enough
to pull me back from the edge, to hold me to you
when I try to fight. next to you, I can sleep through the night(in
your arms, everything is alright.)
I have never been very good at math, but I know
that two is greater than one, and that there are some things
that can’t be undone. I know there are infinity numbers
between one and two, and that every little moment with you
adds up; I’m not great with sequences, but I think I can figure out
a pattern when I see one. I wish I could quantify love;
if x then y, it is enough. But love is a fickle thing, a butterfly
taking wing when you try to pin it down, and there’s no equation,
no theorem, no rule. They can’t teach you what love is in school.