and i've writ words till they were a snarl,
a tangle of fucking & warring at my feet,
cries of "you were nothing to me,"
"i need you to live," yield at my lips.
clusters of lyrics glimmer beneath,
sultry and unchanging: they are
anorexic, and i've traded my tendencies.
i purge on letters and sentences till i am full.
they, like chocolate, settle under my chin.

i grab a curl beneath my growing fingers,
and pray,
"play it again, lover, like you used to."
you smile, and strum.
i simper, and sob.
my gasps for air never in tandem with your crescendos.
you are a song all your own.
i am lilting children's stories, the ones
your mother never told you about.

and i speak, to no one, things of unimport,
mantras to make myself worthy again.
i pick up a pen and drool, useless.
scribbles, unintelligible, meander their way
across my page.
i listen to music & watch philosophical shows
and nothing, no, nothing
helps the words birth from my mind.

pills & coffee fight for dominance.
the pills to make the weary body rest &
coffee, to freshen the mind,
plays the slave driver.
this contraption, this body, sprung
from the rape
of 80s action thrillers on group exercise.
no brainer.
just pure adrenaline.

and i grew from stephen king
to alduous huxley & kurt vonnegut and finally to
those masters of confession and suicide
--(anne, sylvia, you are as alive today
--as you ever were, i promise).
and in those moments where i
steal into their worlds, i
could write a masterpiece.

but then i close the book.