09102011

if tonight

you offered me

the moon on a string of gold

and told me it was mine to keep

would i believe you?

should i?

09072011

another unsent letter…

Dear M.,

I see you after… how many years? I make it a point to look at your face. I look. I understand one thing: You are the incarnation of Desperation. You are the discarded lover gone mad. You are lonely. Alone. Feeding on long-lost memories. Holding my name between your parched lips. Murmuring it secretly, so it sounds like the squealing sands of a violent desert storm.

You can’t erase my absence. You can’t erase my presence.

It is not because you hate me that you wish to make me suffer; it is because you love me.

Right?

But, no. This is not love. This is Obsession. Consumption. Insanity.

I want to say, You are pathetic. I do not want to make the effort.

I recall how you loved listening to your own voice. I recall how no other voice but yours mattered. Now, there is no voice inside your throat. Your desperation has petrified all timbre.

I recall how you gazed at your own reflection, so lost in self-love. Was what others lavished on you not enough? But for you, nothing was ever enough. Yours was always the need for more.

I recall… it doesn’t matter.

As I close my eyes over these memories, a persistent question saturates my vision: What is a word for who YOU are?

I have no words. Or, rather. I have no energy to seek the words. Or perhaps… I have no desire to expend the energy.

One blink, and you are black tar inside my eyelids.

I discarded you, so long ago. And what I discard, I never recover.

Sincerely,

N.

09052011

tell me about the cinderella complex

you said

and you flipped over on your side

one arm between us

the other around the backside of my heart

your face up close to mine

so we were

nose against nose

lips against lips

teeth against teeth

and i had no breath

as i said to myself

it is me with you

it is my secret desire

something i can never tell

but a truth i know so well

it is the destruction of my fabricated self

the degradation of my false modesty

but i did not tell you this

nor did you wait for my response

instead, you said

you have such delicate ankles

such fragile bones

and how clenched you were!

how in battle with yourself!

and solid gold probed divided rose flesh

oh, to be impaled

so exquisitely!

so… inside!

and outside…

only the sound of crickets

09012011

there is a broken being out there

(who i can hardly call a man),

messed up and insecure,

who invents brothers,

who invents sisters,

who invents sons,

who invents daughters,

who invents lovers,

(and what they do to him,

and what he does to them),

who invents the entirety of his life

(and its nuances, in tow)

and who invents praise to himself,

while inventing, also, those who deliver it.

and all of this

for something that belongs to him

no more than he belongs to himself.

in a world filled with imagination,

there is always room for more,

yet,

one must ever keep one’s finger steady

on what’s real and what’s not.

and so…

i wrote it in a story before,

and i will say it here, once more:

“if you tell the same lie enough times, even you start to believe it.”

and here is where solitude begins.

and in the kingdom of solitude, madness reigns.