visionary loser

an alternative to ennui

I guess it’s February

I want to write about cigarettes. I want to make some profound allusion to my love for him. I want to talk about ashy kisses and yellowed fingertips. Metaphors of fire and smoke. Comparisons to books. Passion and the patriarchy.

But I find myself writing this: “Why do people romanticize cigarettes? They’re cancerous and smelly.”

Is it distasteful to state the obvious?

Irony.

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This Time

Love comes creeping

Hauntingly

This time

Do you think of me (as I think of you)?

What do you think about at 4AM?

Do you think of me?

Of us?

I just want you to open up to me.

Open your heart, not just your arms.

I feel warm and content in your embrace,

but distance makes my body cold –

that’s when I think of you

and it makes me sad.

I think sadness is what chokes and extinguishes life

and I become a shadow of the person I perform.

Antidote to Bereavement

we the underbelly –

cowering in the dark amongst the filthy,

our pockets filled with mud and shit

pissing away at the manicured suits

cocaine nightmares

dusted and busted

there’s no other choice.

slitting our throats,

we hang ourselves amongst the living

spilling blood in the streets

as hollowed eyes watch,

in sick sad amusement

fucked by millions of tiny cocks

spitting threats and dreams in our mouths

that dissipate and butcher.

manipulative usurping cunts

casting us in fiery disarray

longing for that sliver of beauty

our innards spill in a pool

of sunken lullabies.

Today

Enough with this depressing, angsty bullshit.

I want to remember today.

I’m feeling really good.

We set ourselves on fire

A brazen, blazing passion

igniting such codependency

that they burned all the same.

By stoking this love

it had become as volatile as an inferno

threatening too much, they ended it.

Naughty little rendezvous

in the embers of what was

but ultimately, it needed to be tamed.

Put out before it devoured too much

for it had

it consumed his heart.

Fiery tempers and hot words

a jealousy that bloomed

and turned to ash.

They built a pyre

to sacrifice such sweet nostalgia

leaving behind an echo of incandescence.

Now he’s drowning his sorrows at the bottom of a bottle

swimming through salt and gasoline

such fervent ill-thoughts.

He lights a cigarette

and watches the smoke twist and dance –

There’s no extinguishing this bond.

Eskimo

Oct. 10, 2016.

This is a new kind of love.

I have experienced romantic love once before –

A pale, bony hand gripping my heart.

This physical manifestation trying to choke the beauty out of it,

Making me shudder violently with the pain of unabashed emotion.

This caring too much is driving me crazy.

My head taken from my shoulders and battered around like a fucking baseball.

My whole body disintegrating around me until all that’s left is my heart,

Pulsing with the illusion of us together.

I know you’ll choose her.

Every fibre of my being says so.

And yet, I still wait in anticipation hoping it could be me.

But would I really want it to be me?

I know it’s a complicated situation,

But would I want to be chosen between two?

To be chosen amongst millions makes me feel unique and special,

But to be chosen against one is…

Well, it just is.

And that sucks.

I love you and I want to protect you.

If that means doing as I am now, so be it.

It’ll be hard to see you with her,

But I’m stronger than I look.

Ultimately, your happiness outweighs mine.

I deserve nothing.

Saturday Night Ignored

That’s what he titled his own shit.

Fuck that.

Fuck this feeling –

this angry knot in my stomach making me sick.

Not able to eat or sleep.

She said I looked like a ghost.

A ghost of a person, not even a ghost of myself.

I hate this, but I love him…

he doesn’t believe me.

Or maybe he does and just doesn’t want to admit that he doesn’t feel the same way.

That maybe he’s a lying piece of manipulative shit who tells me he loves me and makes me feel ‘good’ but is actually selfish –

just fiends attention.

No shit.

You can’t love love two things at once.

It’s fucking impossible.

And if you do, you’re lying to yourself

desperate to keep this warm feeling around because you’re scared of what lies outside.

Scared to be alone.

Scared to run to someone in the hopes of rekindling that feeling, knowing that you don’t feel the same.

Fuck love. Fuck life. Fuck fucking.

My body is nothing.

My mind doesn’t need this shit.

My body craves it because I’ve been feeding it for years.

But before then, when I knew (no) better, I didn’t need this.

I needed no one.

It was lonely and sad,

But it was deserved.

I deserve nothing.

THAT is the only lesson I will ever receive.

My purpose is to be for others.

No fucking way will they allow me to be for myself.

And I wanna say

FUCK IT

But I’m scared.

I’m still so tied up in this mundane, human bullshit.

I feel too much to say so.

I want to reach that point where I no longer feel.

Or do I?

I continuously contradict myself because I know nothing.

He knows nothing.

We are nothing.

but mainly me

Thoughts at 4AM

Love makes me shudder with unabashed emotion.

Trembling at the amount of control it has over me.

I am powerless to it.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because I’ve had a moment of mental clarity.”

I cry when I’m frustrated,

when I’m shocked,

when I’m happy.

I’ve never cried eureka before.

Sick Sad Love

As we embraced,

You put your hands on my waist,

And I felt myself sink into you.

 

My body responds to your touch –

striving for that electric pull,

Spark extinguished.

 

Floundering under the weight of memory –

rose coloured and golden,

I want it to be pure.

 

We are submerged in comfort and nostalgia,

Thrashing against chains that bind us,

Enslaved by this false Love.

 

You press your mouth to mine,

Sharing in the same substance that keeps us alive,

Can you tell my tears from ocean water?

 

The pressure builds,

My mind cloudy with blood and water,

And you like that it’s slowly killing us.