Seeking a Friend for the End of the World

"You are my favorite favorite thing."

Rackk and Ruin

It's too expensive to watch you fall. I'm balanced so thinly on something I don't even know and I pray that you're still willing to be my strong back, my legs when I can't move, and my voice when I can't speak. I need you to be older than me and to take care of me when I don't want to anymore. I need you to witness me in my most organic states and know that I miss you terrible twos. I miss you because you held me up with Popsicle sticks and they're cracking at the loss of their puppeteer. I'm waning and wanting you because sometimes I catch your scent in a place where you've probably never even been and then I want you so badly is burns my throat. I keep thinking it's not going to happen, but then I remember that it already has. I've already been that close-so close to you behind a wall that knows nothing, yet knows everything that has happened. I talk about you when it's not necessary and I can't stop it. Word chunder, diarrhea of the mouth, your name is the bile that rips the skin from inside of my throat. I see you everywhere and you're not, but oh God, I miss you all the time and I wish I had a real reason for it, but I don't. I'm beginning to wonder if I even know you at all or if I painted a picture with charcoal and sharpie. 

Conversations with the Sheets

Disguise the pallet of your porcelain skin which lights up the darkness of my space. 

She stands in a dark outside, watching and wondering why it is that she will never be good enough to stand with you. 

You would never allow a comfortable situation unless her tights were ripped to her loins and her lips were bitter red. 

In absolute silence you find discomfort and all she wants is to be loved. 

There are dreams which awaken her with real-time sickness, it bulges in her throat and fills her lungs with discourse and deliberate bile. 

You are not who you pretend to pretend to be because she saw you years ago in your driveway with braces-

You were better then.

When skin becomes tight around her bones she looks to find the beautiful ones-the ones who claim that beauty is non-existent, and yet hold it in their hands so much that creases form in their palms. 

"You are beautiful, but I am not in love with you.

I'm sorry that you're so lonely, but I can't be held in your company. You don't deserve to know my love, because I don't give it freely."

All she wanted was to be in love, or to have someone love her so much that it pained them to be away from her-something she'd felt for many men, but had never received in return. 

All she wanted was to be wanted in some fragmented way.

She wanted to be a butterfly on the wall in a love story, but that seemed so far. 

He loved her best friend, he loved ladies of the night too much, he loved another so dearly, he liked to play with her emotions, he didn't know she existed, and he was too scared to look her way. 

All she wanted was to be seen and to plug the bleeding wounds with her thumb before they sucked her inside of themselves.

Warped, warm, wrecked.

Broken bones cracked more gracefully than she did.

Crow's Sleep

He was stacked up black- a wild thing where the tame things are.

Disconnected, disentranced, as black as the sky he should be under, but lost.

Where are you lost from and found in such a tedious place?

Caretakers with fleshy antennae that reach out and tap the bars of your cage.

This is not nature, a pair of brown eyes illusive and translucent- able to see your fright, though you are all one shade of it. 

Time to leave the nest to be left behind before you could fly

Sometimes the wingless teach the alar how to be.

How to be. 

And oh, God that look in your eye like a ball of ashy end-of-world rock.

There are no tricks that can deceive you of your freedom and so here you're left in the place where we cook chickens.

You tuck yourself beneath your own wing, because no one else knows the comfort you need. 

Sleep little wild thing, sleep wild thing, sleep.

After awhile, things just become items.

Poem

Just an ounce of information purged itself from between your thumbs.

It's exhausting, pretending to not give a shit when I give it all at once.

Sometimes it hits at a moment's notice and at other times I'm expecting it when it comes-

it knocks me backwards in time and I rely solely on the reality of things to pull the wool over my own eyes. 

I'm homesick for a home I do not own and for a place I've never really been, but then there are senses that knock together-my knees which rock and run until they ache, wait to get to you somehow. 

I'm no longer afraid of night as she sweeps herself over the lampposts to put out their light in spite of my return home. 

I follow my shadow uphill and watch her run ahead of me to say that I'm lagging in some great way.

Go! Hurry! Get indoors! 

Alex, Dim, Lodger, and Tramp could find me in the dark and do the harmful magic they did onscreen. 

It slows my gait, could I really get away? Probably not, but I like to rest in your bed and think that perhaps I could. 

What if your mind is misting over and I'm being left behind? 

I want only the best and somehow dollar bills taunt me with you on the end of the stick.

"Walk on" they say to me, a grasp and a kick away.

Your short story carried one period, and then I weighted and felt bad for your lonesome. 

Some people probably think you're the greatest, the bravest, but you're just the greatest pretender to me. 

Probably, you think I'm just so taken by the spritzing glory of your presence, and I am, in a different kind of way.

I'm taken and thrust against the wall, pinned, stuck, angry, agape. 

Somehow, there was hopelessness in your words, an undercover warning, that maybe you knew only I would understand. 

I am no longer awake here, I should have told you really how it is.

I'm in need of your lifting companionship that never chained me down despite it all. 

Love is not the word anymore, perhaps you've made me someone that I'm not in touch with yet.

I am in debt to you, that's not in love with you.

Simply, there's no way to console the gap in my chest unless you're the doctor who bandages me up.

I'm okay for now, but the sooner the better.

I in debt you.

Most of my hair is gone and I feel good about it. Change, for the most part, is good. I feel stronger, more badass    , especially with the variety of bruises on my legs from boxing.
I decided I'm going to quit my job this Sunday instead of next Sunday, mostly because I feel like I'm slowly becoming a money-hungry zombie. It all feels residual now, I feel like I get deja vu far too often...the paranormal-esque feeling escapes me. Not all people are bad, but the diners that come into my work seem to be cut from the same cloth: most of them are very grumpy or are under the age of twenty, and thus, have no idea how to tip on their daddy's credit card. Some jerk left my co-worker five cents, and the other, seven cents. This is no kind of life. It was with little inspiration that my mom reminded me last night that I'm "Below what the government considers the poverty level." I'm below poverty...I guess that means I'm sort of like...the cardboard box in which the hobo lives. Sweet. Another one of my co-workers scrutinized my newly cropped do and asked "Is this where you met your boyfriend?" I replied: No. "...your girlfriend??" It must of seemed to him, a discreet way to ask if I'm gay, but I realized what he was doing and laughed. Short hair=automatic questioning of one's personal sexual preference. I like boys and I have short hair. If I were a lesbian, I'd have short hair and I'd like girls. It doesn't matter does it?
As I walked up our dark street I heard people laughing like hyenas in the distant and I thought: "How freaky would it be if Alex, Dim, Lodger, and Tramp ( A Clockwork Orange) came running out of the darkness after me. HOW SCARY WOULD THAT BE?! Sometimes random thoughts keep me sane, even when they're a bit strange. I just want a summer, I don't want to work at the diner and continue to come home with sticky forearms and a greasy face. I just want some time before I move to spend.
Sleep well,
  Adieu.