In an open letter to a old lover faineant:

Static collects in my ears, and I can no longer tell the difference between the words of a lover and the song of a foe-

And you were the most indolent love,

to The Lover: 

guilty beyond reason, charmless and fragile, they all watch in mock alarm as a teenaged boy takes the shape of Richard III after losing his horse- with your head between your hands and your tail between your legs you’re desperate, looking for comfort.

And if it’s comfort you seek, the other shall oblidge:

Comfort seeping through my overextended courtesies and right onto the carpet, mixing with my blood and tears to create a stain.

And you pitch your words, just wiffle balls, full of holes and lacking air endurance they fall short and mix right in with the bloody stain soaking deeper and deeper into the corroding wooden floor.

The blister that I bite, trying to prevent an untimely overdose-

to The Other:

overextended courtesies can result in lack of blame, dependency, and prideful retreats. 

Soaked in blood and running through the streets I cried out, Ive been stABBED! Look at me!! Stabbed!

And those prideful onlookers drop their eyes and avoid their own promises- once respected, recently forgotten- as they cover their ears and ignore the trail of blood that leads behind me.

And don’t try to explain, to justify, to relate or to beg- I’ve heard it all/

And though theres nothing within commitment that garuntees endurance I close my eyes against the sounds of oncoming traffic and cross my heart in soft silence.

How often do you sail off an overpass, and why do you have so many that follow you into headlights like fire? lighting up your native night and illuminating the discarded bodies that I have tried so hard to ignore..

And although I can’t open my eyes any longer.

I looked over towards my mother, and the pity I felt for her bubbled

Deliberate posthumous excusion - a condition of the mind.

In which one forgives something thats died because it can’t work to forgive itself anymore, and grudges are so tiring..

Stealing things from Sunday school, ah, such similar themes continue today

And I ask my mother, could you forgive me for a mournful love?

One thats always receeding and moving a couple of steps forward at the same time?

In a world where we live by convieniencing ourselves through separating the emotional and the rational I find my heart and my head fighting, my expectations trail on the ground behind me, all but a discarded bridal veil

But this wound has been opened so many times, it skips the skin tear and goes straight to scabbing.