Phoenix

I am tormented

by my love for you. 

It burns me.

It consumes me.

I'm embarrassed. 

I really ought to know better by now. 

Sparks

and fire 

and ice

It burns.  

Cohesion doesn't make sense. 

This, doesn't make sense. 

Cohesion doesn't explain

the delight in longing,

the lust and self-loathing

that loving you brings. 

I will die in the fire of all of this. I know it. 

It's a dangerous game, loving you. 

It burns. 

I am burning. 

Ashes.

And then the spark,

lights...

And my torment

my love,

begins again. 

There are words
weighing heavy on
my lips

But they don't budge,

they sit there
digging in their heels

resisting the urge
to be written

Bite-sized bits

Underwear
is aspirational
somedays

--------------

A pencil is more reliable
but less permanent.

A tricky payoff, no?

--------------

I don't dream about tornadoes anymore,

But I smoke now, sometimes.

--------------

Maybe I should go find someone to fuck.

Is that what this is? Surrender?

Surrender.

--------------

Is it possible to smell like anything
other than sweat
and mosquito spray here?

Human

How sad to be a camera.

They see death
and don't feel sad.

They watch people have sex
but don't get aroused.

They witness horrors
and don't scream out.

How sad to be a camera.

They see everything.
And feel nothing.

Lucky. 

I dream of tornadoes

I dream of tornadoes.

Tornadoes outside of my house
Tornadoes outside of my bedroom.
I'm always running.

I dream of destroying everything.

The fear crawls on my skin
prickles on my neck and in my chest.
Panic. Alarm.

It catches you.
It always catches you.

I dream I am the tornado.

The power scares me.
I don't know how to destroy everything.
It feels like burning a book you wrote,
or a masterpiece you painted.
You can't get it back.
It's absolute.
Ashes.

It will all be gone.

I will be gone.

I don't know how to die yet.

It's not enough
to ask me
and expect
I'll know what to say
to make you feel like someone special.

What do I know of your insides?
Your dark spaces? Your hidden closets
of self-pity and conceit?
Who am I to stroke your narcissism?

I'm better off stroking myself.
At least I'll respect myself in the morning.

Writing isn't for happy people
is it?

Joy doesn't change people
the way pain does

Broken people
cut me
so I feel it
deeper

Am I an emotional masochist?
Or is that a sadist?
How can joy compare?
It's not as sharp
You can't cut meat
with spoons
You need the knifes edge
You need to bleed

Feeling something
is better
than feeling nothing

I gotta work tomorrow
it's getting too late for self pity.