Clarity


I was actually happy when it snowed. Feeling the liquor. I was laying on your jacket. Mine too. You always come, but never stay. I haven’t had time to shower because of you. Fuck.

These words I just told you are the clearest memories I can retain from the days before I wrote this poem. Clarity is something precious. It is also something people take for granted. Like clothes– I slept naked for the past few days. And fuck it, it felt great. It’s seems like I learned the most from you while I was naked, first lesson being the importance of cuddlingus. Second one being to not bring up my depression around you cuz it’s a turn off. Third one being that a suicide letter is in no way a love letter. So I am Counting the freckles like the stars that guide me as I capsize my heart in an ocean of me. Me in a storm of pills, with antidepressant antichrists ending my humanity. No feeling is better than pain, cuz the pain you gave me was too much to handle. So I turned to sedation. That night I walked into the woods swearing I would finish myself off with an overdose of sedation sensation that has relation to my melodramatic realization. I was going to drown myself that night. Until I called you, and said every pill I was going take that night was a symbol, and as a poet you know how I love symbols. Each pill represented every promise you made me swallow– every pill a contract we wrote in pizza grease and diner breakfast. These symbols we made for each other in the hope that they would represent something greater than us– that we would stitch our words into wings and ascend to our greater beings. But you said you had commitment issues. You see, the only issue you had was that you saw commitment as an issue. You spent too much time looking at your hicky scars to realize the loving kisses that put them there. Besides that, you were imperfectly perfect. You gave into fear like Anakin gave into hate. You caved cuz the faces of others clouded your perspective like drops of kool-aid in water. Too long I’ve waited for someone like you, and obviously you still want to wait. Well I guess I have to wait with you, cuz if I can’t have those swing dancing ugly hats you threw at me, I don’t know if I can resist walking into those woods again.
But I digress, what I’ve said about you so far is the shriveled gremlin of my heart that still clings to your memory. The better part of me has moved on to the present day, where only your lessons live on like flowers in my garden of bruises. You planted the seed of a man where my child self lives, bloodied my face so I can feel the reality dripping down my cheeks. I was a cartoon that you made real again. And all the thoughts that ought to stop buzzing and fuzzing my brain like insane in the membrane making me bite into fruits that shoot me full of lies that tantalize the sadness of a boy who just wants to be heard! …Clarity is something precious. So when I speak of you, i speak clearly. I think not of how you hurt me, but of what you taught me: to first remember the importance of cuddlingus, to second always bring up my depression around you cuz you’ll be turned off enough to help me defeat my depression, and to third let my suicide letters be merely fuel for the fire that burns the relentless compassion we share together. And that’s all I have left for you– love.

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And so the men of wood, stone, and steel, after a day in the rain, return to their homes made of plastic.

But my home, O, my home, is made of wax, dripping golden hands down wooded floors, fragrant with the power of Pine-Sol, baby. The floor’s boughs way heavy with the scars of wolves at play, joy bleeding from their wounds like paper cuts from an old spell book. Spells of dancing, spells of laughter; spells of worry, spells of despair. So much doubt… But despair no more, child, for we have scriptures ripe to replace yours! Vibrate through the echoes of our fathers, and swear upon the oak mantle that you are descendant. Soak your tongue on the ashes of our stone heroes, burned to a crisp by the dragons they sought to slay. Join their side on that oak mantle as you chase your very own damsel in distress and don’t stress the distress you press against the corridor walls of your heart and please in part ignore the stars that dart through your eyelids cuz those celestial masterpieces were not made for you. Do not love the dragon that stole your damsel; that love is not made for you. Burn your wick on the oak mantle here in your home of wax, made just for you.

burn bright

burn bright