I had dealt with it,
buried it under
but I grew to hate the apathy I labelled stength;
I missed your waterfall skin
I missed your hard drive promises (prone to crashes)
I missed your solar flare smile (momentary burning lack of time lapses)
I missed your event horizon memory (perfection for a second followed by cosmic prolapse)
even though it is agony.
Visceral, luminous agony.
But there it is, laid out naked;
and there is nothing in the end but the ever-vapid,
no rhyme, reason,
or flaccid time signature to
grant it emphasis
or meaningful inaction.
Only words and their cold
only an oligarchy of madness
replacing a patriarchy of unendurable sadness;
in exchange for ecstacy-worship
and the cult of happenstance.
And yet still,
still I can’t live a beautiul lie;
and I can’t bury you in one night stands
and I can’t bury you in smiley-faced facebook posts
and I can’t bury you in cynicism
and I can’t bury you in god, knowledge or alcoholism
and I can’t bury you in art or agony or elation or loneliness or solipsism.
Portrait of a desolate animal,
alone in a corner:
Knees pulled up to chest, eyes vacant with unrest, trickling spickets of distress
and I’m choking
and I’m dying
and I can’t breath
and I can’t think straight, see straight, believe straight
and I can’t go on
and I can’t stop
and I can’t move
and I can’t not love you
and I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you so so much.
Realization of wanton horror;
that you’ll forever haunt my hallowed corners,
you’ll never leave my desire and I’ll never burn you with fire like the bridges we alit with matchsticks and ire,
and there’s only one reason I’m writing this
papier-mache portrait of pain;
so that one day you’ll stumble across it on your fucking iphone curled up next to him and all his fucking money and his fucking cars and his fucking religion
and I hope you realize for just one blink of eternity
that you played with
pencil shaving minefields
and infinite hearts
and the soul of a haunted man,
and you broke them all
you broke them all
you broke them all.