Dewflower

He is now a face I know better than I should. Hands with craters, he picks at his cuticles just like I do. Coffee. It smells black. He always has the same mug. I wonder what the inside of it (him) looks like. Guts of coffee grounds and the sawdust of a thousand nights must cover that container. I wonder how full he is. I can see him. I know his face and I know his name and I know what he stands for, but I want to understand the myself that I see in the skin pulled from his fingers and bleeds during church. I wonder what overtakes him when he tries to sleep but knows he has murdered rest and so he lies to himself, awake in b

Your things are packed, like a vicious  argument that has run out of small talk. Your cigarettes are waiting for you outside in your little Jetta; I hope you smoke them. I have never hoped that onto someone, but I sincerely do hope you smoke those cigarettes. Maybe they can help you clear your head and get shit straight. Swallow that last glug of drink so you have no reason to be here. Those words you said don't matter anymore. The fights, the stares, the therapy, none of it worked. Those punches were always hard to roll with, after all. The car is running, and wherever you are going is waiting for you to arrive. Leave here

She wants to help, (but) I am not even here anymore. Everyday I go through the motions, and the failure is just so regular I can't even think about life or that girl I love  or my best friend (singular) and those people that intervene to try and save me. nice try. I'm not worth saving. After a while, the inner insults just become numb normality. This is just the way it is. I am sitting on rock bottom and the dirt is starting to fall in the form of words that no longer make me cringe: Hey fuckface. Just keep walking toward class because no one is going to talk to you. No one cares enough. And, yeah. You are failing yo

My bones hurt for your presence. Every piece of my skin wants. I wait for you to call, but at bedtime, the silence stains. See the ghosts? I see them. I know them. They follow me around, they beg me welcome. They eat the behinds of my words until there is nothing left but everything I never wanted to say. They are unstoppable just like your silence. They never stop, just like a breath, then another breath, a breath and then nothing.

When I saw your eyes skinned with tears, I sunk. I knew exactly what I had done. Within those selfish moments one has when their control slips, there is always someone that wants what you have. I did this. I could punch a wall until my hand was broken. I could rip my own hair out. I could scream and yell and stomp on my voice until it was dead. But nothing will change. And after all of the "sorry"s and the "please forgive me"s, I know that, slowly put, when you ran, you left your trust in the footprints.

When you kissed her, you reopened that clawed rip in the pavement. It forced me downward into that place I only knew in past nightmares and hoped was no longer real. That cry you saw when you looked me deep. The cry that came from restless quiet when I felt revived fears touch my arms and constrict hate kill healing tendons as real as death is far. All could do is try to hold myself together in the face of terrible faces and run.

It looked appealing when I was bright eyed and rambunctious and didn't know someone could die that fast. That was when my death rang clean. That time I drew blood and thought the high was crazy, that was the day Satan received me and granted me death. The rest of these days are just ghosts.

I love you so much I can't even take it. Those things I said about love  before I knew what I was dealing with were stupid and naive; I didn't know about the way it likes to play with hearts and stars that didn't know what was coming to sabotage the plans I had for a life alone and rearrange them so I liked them better, I just didn't know. There comes a time when one must leave what they know and venture into a new place to learn new things and travel the world that did not exist before. This is now. The time is now.

 Years of growing a thicker than thick skin, of painting rooms of makeup onto my face, of trying to monitor the fight between good sense and good intentions, and I looked in the mirror and I saw my eyes, sharp enough to slice through my willpower like a stick of butter. Nothing. I had nothing. Years of building, years of building. And it turns out I had nothing but an empty, wavering skyscraper that just wasn't tall enough to keep the stupid hands of addiction from grabbing me. It made me tear at my hair until I was bald and hit my thighs until I were bruised, and what was the worst part? I couldn't stop. It had me. I was its slave. I loo

 She was on the floor visibly shaking, her skin starched with stiff, patched skin. The rug was purple, but not as purple as her hands, cold and without regard to the heat of her pulsing chest as she hugged her knees. She squeezed her eyes shut as another wave of urge attacked her mind, the trigger screaming so loud that hiding her head in my knees was all she could do to try and escape the inner clutter, "I can't do this! I can't do this I can't do this...." Words were shaking. Release was trying to drip out her mouth as noise, release fluttered inside of her, waiting for her to grab at it violently until she got what she wanted, Release ha