A Looming Lurch

Is it all right that I keep my gun away, even though its loaded?

I always wondered if we outgrew our self-destructive tendencies.

I always guessed not.

I always thought you loved them.

And I was mad because you loved that dark "child" you hold.

I was mad because our chances for "our" children become slimmer at every worthless disgrace. 

I was mad because I gave you the physical metaphor, and you accepted it without hesitation.

But it doesnt seem like you care for the real thing.

And look, I know I am a conceited, vindicated, self-justified bastard.

Ive been told.

I understand that this body has a potent poison brewing in my stomach. That I can be a colorless weapon, just waiting to be held in the right direction.

I know how you feel when I search your every cavity and crevice for plot devices and emotion's written evidence. You squirm when I reveal my inquiring thumb and my crafty fingers. And my apology is often long and overwritten.

I've been told.

But, to tell you the truth, my knuckles have been sore for far too long. My lungs are too tired to spend the breath. These burns have not diffused, and the particles cannot be cleaned cause they will always cling and you will never ever ever care. All the lines that were so carefully laid out are inevitably twisted. All the steal beams that took out the strength from my back candidly liquefy in your volcanic mind. As their trumpets outplay my serenade, the fire in my fist blackens my fingers.

And you know I'm too sinister to bike to the picnic, and I'm too smart to picket. But for every ribbon they collect my voice shrinks into a humming static. And somehow your diary became an invoice. And somehow the reporters got swallowed up by tyrants hungry for hostages. Who are you among the ghosts? Who are you  speaking to when you address me? And what part of me do you savor? What part of me makes you grin and bite your lip during the quiet of the day?

Your an apostle to the self delusion of insomniacs. Your heartbreak consists of a body and a name, and but your tragedy are the love letters that you never opened. Open up the envelope. We left band aids inside.

And fuck me, I know that band aids wont piece together your heart.
I know...

And I wish they would. God, I fucking prayed that they would.

But I am just ink being washed off your body, and I spin down your drain along with all the blood. You finally felt my teeth and threw me off as the dead weight carcass you no longer know. My elongated neck and pale skin can only fade into another set of pink memories. Catch my coat, and tell me I am a liar again if you still yearn to cut me. You whisper your apocalypse under your breath as drive away. 

I wish you could be proud of me.
And
Whenever you leave
Always, I wish
I wish someone had my back.

Cause circumstance can fuck us over. And its not because Im a deadbeat user.
And its not because your a special little fuck of a freak.


When I think about it all
God help me!
They can say so many things about me. But that wont change the promises I made. It wont change how the stars were aligned when I left out my hearts desire on your driveway.

I will take my self-respect and my dignity. I won't give my heart to the demons. To many good things are written upon that organ for the rampage of malevolent souls.

So when youre not afraid to leave the dark quarters of that labyrinth, come out and talk to me.
I will tell you that you are beautiful.
With whatever I have on me.
Because that is written on my heart.
Thats all I wanted to say.

That and..

Im sorry

(and I still want to be mad but I will say it because I love you and I regret hurting you but I do want you to know that I need respect and love too, despite the circumstance and my mistakes and my apathy and all that shit, and I am doing my damn best to make you proud and I want you to love me long enough to see me shine for God and You)