The Victory that’s Left

My mother would play this trick on us,
and in her game,
the points of her fingernails
would turn into spiders’ feet,
and spiders would crawl up our backs,
turning us into wriggling, squirming worms.

Now, you’ve played the same game,
but taken it too far.
The spiders have built a little nest
between two ribs,
between the cracks of the collar
that’s meant to protect my heart;
the same heart that you trapped in your box
before you swallowed the key.

And now my heart beats in an odd rhythm,
but you can slurp back your norepinephrine
and do the same with it
that you did with the ashes of what was to be my life:
you can mix them with your cornflakes
on early mornings
when you go to care of those invalids.

So look at you:
you’ve finally won a carcass to hang with pride.
You destroyed a person
much like someone destroyed you,
and now someone’s life has been turned to tinders,
the remnants of which land
in some dark, reeking corner of some corporate grocer’s dumpster,
while you soak your pillow each night with the aftermath.

According to your dad’s logic,
I should never have given you clemency.
But I don’t blame you, really;
I wish I could help you, in fact, even after all this,
and even if I don’t want to talk to you any time in the next millennium.
I’d just love if you’d take your foot off my goddamn neck.

A Lost Weekend

What the fuck are you talking about? You think that there’s someone I’m trying to marry? Or wanting to marry or some shit? I’m totally single. I promise. Absolutely single, and yours for the weekend, if you’re still down. I mean, where did this come from? Did we have a discussion while I was drunk? Are you on acid? If you’re on acid, I would love it if you’d consider letting me have some acid. Maybe we could do things while on acid. Could be hot. But seriously, what the fuck are you even talking about? This shit makes no sense. But please let me know about the acid, okay?

Am I hung up on my ex? Of course! Is that what you’re worried about?! Why? I’m hung up on several exes! But you think that makes a difference with you? She and I are never getting back together, first off. My most recent one, I mean. Well, any of them, I guess. I’m just mourning. It’s not that big a deal, really. I’ve been broken up with lots of time, and I’m sure it’ll happen thousands more times. Anyway, what makes you think I wasn’t imagining you while I was with (in) her? All men do that shit. And pretty much every time. Plenty of women do, too, as I understand it; as I’ve been told. I’m not trying to make it a sexist thing, okay. But also, you’re my friend and I’ve always liked you. Otherwise, how would we even have found ourselves having this discussion? But really, why does it matter how I feel about anyone else? You’re the one who suggested the sexual weekend rendezvous, and we’ve been friends for a while now. I respect and admire you. Do you think that I’ve forgotten how great you are and how sexy you are? I just don’t get this. It’s so weird to me. I mean, it’s fine and all – you’re entitled to your feelings, and I think they’re legitimate – but I just don’t understand. I want to understand.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a “good guy,” but you never communicated anything, and I don’t know where this is coming from. Did you ever ask me a question about this? Did you find something that I posted somewhere that misguided you? Did we have some conversation that I’m unaware of? Maybe you had my brain wiped clean of the memory of some interaction, like in that stupid Will Smith movie.

You knew that I was on my way to see you, and you disappeared. Did you break all of your fingers? Did Siri catch pneumonia? Whether you happen to be right or not, you have no idea what the fuck is going on. There’s no way you could. Way too goddamn presumptuous. Really. What do you think you know? And how? Fucking bullshit. I will delete you from my Facebook. I swear to God.

I mean, I realize that you might be kind-of psychic, but that doesn’t mean that you’re always right, every single time. But you’re stubborn as fuck, so it doesn’t matter what I say, huh? There’s no way you’re going to admit that maybe you made an assumption based on practically no evidence, and maybe that’s pretty un-fucking-fair, and maybe you could’ve done better. Anyway, I don’t expect an apology from you. Not really. I mean, it’d be nice, but I don’t think that you’d be likely to apologize about this sort of thing. You’ve probably deluded yourself into thinking that you’re right, anyway.

But you’re probably right, I guess. I still don’t know what about, but I basically trust you. I mean, I think that I know myself pretty well, but you’re not saying all this shit for no reason, I guess. I mean, it’s unfair and irrational, but that doesn’t mean that you’re wrong. What the fuck do I know, anyway? I’d probably just shit my pants and jack off all day, if left to my own devices. That’s the truth. I’m basically a child.

God, you have a beautiful body. Shit.

Because I’ll Never See You Again

It was in the softness in your eyes:
there was fear there, vulnerability,
and I knew you’d experienced pain.

Maybe you were trying to trust men again,
and I gave you reasons to not trust me.
But I trusted you.

The honey in your voice,
the warmth of your smile
radiated confidence into me,
and I wanted to speak softly
so as to not startle you,
and I wanted to embrace you,
but that’s not quite right
because we would’ve embraced each other,
and we could’ve been best friends,
and that could’ve lasted.

I felt your fear,
despite your desire
to be sweet to someone,
and I’m sorry that I couldn’t be the one
to make you finally feel Free.
Farewell, My Lost Friend.

To Hold a Candle

I still smell the singed centers of our final photographs,
but I can’t forget the figures forged in my mind.

I’m sitting in the center of my queen-size bed
with tape on my mouth,
but you can’t keep me from crying over you.

I’m terrified that you’ll never forgive me.
I’ve always loved you more than I’ve loved anyone,
and to be rejected so completely, so viciously, so callously,
means I’ve failed in the most profound way;
I wasn’t good enough
when I most needed to be.

“Rejection-Sensitive Dysphoria,” they’ll call it,
and they’ll be right.
And it’s incredibly excruciating.
But it’s something else, too.
There’s peculiar magic between us,
even if we’ve made it too complicated for now.

I know how to love myself.
I’ve just been doing a bad job, lately.

I keep entering your number in my phone,
just to press “End” instead of “Send.”
It’s excruciating.
I want to respect your wishes, and I’ll continue to,
but I miss you so badly.
I don’t just want to be friends,
but I’d settle for sometimes talking to you.

Until then, I’ll work at being better
for both our sakes,
and you go ahead and do what you want.
I’ll keep your secrets.
I talked to your dad, but I didn’t tell him anything to make him judge you.
I see that you’ve changed your hair,
so I know that all this pain is meaningful to you.

It’s okay to be scared,
but this is so painful.
I have faith in us both.

You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever known,
even when you’re at your worst.
Maybe you’re just reminding me that I never deserved you.

So when you’re all done being angry,
when you can finally forgive yourself for our failures,
I’ll be here, waiting for you to let me be your friend again,
wanting to hold you.
Just waiting.

Sweet Cannibalism

Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.
Some animal could come devour my carcass,
and I’d join the soil,
and plants would absorb parts of me,
and maybe part of me could become a pumpkin.

And then, the pumpkin could be baked into a pie,
and you could eat a piece of the pie because you miss me
and because you’d remember how I loved pumpkin pie,
and it’d make you sad to think of me
and it’d make you happy to think of me.

–

And if there’s an afterlife,
I could look at your lovely face
and feel satisfied
because I made you sad and happy
and because you missed me
and because I helped you
and because maybe part of me was a little sweet to you.

Nothing creative about this

My dad’s alive, hiding out, and he may be dying.

How do I feel about this?

I couldn’t tell you.