i hate your clinging the way
you want things to change for you. love, stop reading hope in epileptic smiles
a life formerly characterized by discarded lotto tickets, your desperation; your
trying after trying.
god but you’re (always) newly-drowning in melodrama and downing anesthetic like alcohol (or is
it the other way around) and the eternal- poised-at your beginning-of-the-end despair (and if it all
ends tomorrow
you know it’s still enough time to (reflexively) self-numb and d r a g me down
with you)
love but i h a t e your origami angels your obsession on sin and hell and demons i hate
your mind-sketches of righteous swords and jesus nailed and bleeding, your
desperate religious bent eager for any kind of s a l v a t i o n (a hell of a word but you won’t stop), an
(un)acknowledged dreamer dreaming dreams of dreams (really, any release from justice)- an
idiot really, holding on
to nothing; but onionskin-fragile words
as if it will save you, buy you from the flames);
after failing earthly things, nothing on this world seems to matter to you anymore, a promise of (postmortem) glory
and it wouldn’t be- isn’t enough-
you putting together the connotations of things into stylistic angst, glossedover (glossy) pain, and
you watching
and dissecting the irregularity of souls with your righteous bent (and love but
don’t dissect me for the love of god i hate it when you do that) so don’t
try to read me, love; but i don’t need you anymore-
i don’t know what i first saw in you, maybe the passion against a disintegrating world but now
i understand it was only your inability to accept anything
contrary to yourself, anything not perfect- (and so, love,
do try to stop needing me
life (,love) is more than being s t u p i d l y scheherazade, having lost count of the nights, more
than looking for
peace (and concluding that it’s found only six feet under) more than surviving and surviving
(and always always less than living) yeah, well breathing may be a bitch but at least-
Look dear; you’ve a bit
less than i thought you would, and maybe i’m just faithless but i h a t e your selfish litany of dreams, the
ecstasy of visions/delusions against a breaking sun, the methodical
again-dissection of the half-life of each piece of light: dramatizing pain; a devastated hero in your
internal relentless plays;
a firefly against a lamp, a moth drawn to only death- all glorious and
meaningless
(and finally; in you , death blooms.)