Come poetry.
Fill these lines with Truth
With my frightful Demons
Untainted, Unrestricted voice from the silent years of my being
My sleeping Dragon
Romantic Psychotic
My Childish ancient self.

Come poetry.
Reminisce on that innocent girl
Jesus cursed with his frightening fallen angels.
Emancipate that Quiet. Abused by his own illusions and self-expectations.
Come poetry.
Filter words with fine-toothed emotion
Filter saliva-resembling ferocity.
Fills these lines with human spirit.
My candle flame of life that might ignite a paper doll
With a flash of enthusiasm.
After, shortly dying on the burnt tabletop
Is my charred reality.

Aren’t we all crying
Silently as we walk alone?
Our exposed skin in the shattering air
recognizes a damp chill
as if we had been swallowed by
some cold monster.

How dreadful it seems, to remember
those nights of childhood spent beneath our blanket
We walk alone, and shiver.
A drop of cold rain pricks our neck
like a kiss from an enemy.
It slides down our back. Raw.
Venomous. Poisoning our comfort.

We walk alone.
The cloud of our insignificant breath
Unnoticeably presses against the darkness.
And the numerous layers covering our nakedness
Seem paper-thin.

The penetrating night cuts clean
And plants its root inside the soil of our mind
That dwells rich with fear. Weak with memory.

Remember when we thought we fell in love?
How smart we felt. And how strong. Because, after all,
We had experienced broken-heartedness hadn’t we?
We thought we were being careful this time.
And it took a little longer for our guard to come down,
Which only lead to greater vulnerability.
Couldn’t we have lasted a bit longer?

Remember when we thought we fell in love?
It took how long?
It lasted how long?
We were children then.
We were in love, as children love.
Beaten children, but still children.
We knew pain, but only as a child knows pain.
We knew loss, but only as a child knows loss.
But...
We thought we were in love.

A year ago.
I had thought I had the world in my pocket.
But no. I, unfortunately, only had a rock,
shaped like the world.
Just as we shaped love, but it really was not.
It was a childish game.
A food-fight of emotions,
A fabricated illusion of happiness
A painful exchange of dependence.

I wrote all this in that card.
No. I wanted to, but only wrote that I missed him,
would give anything to have him hold me again.

And I thought of our embrace,
as I folded the paper.
I thought of our passionate nights,
as I licked the envelope.
And I almost mailed it,

But didn’t.

Hello.
I own a pen
With which, I will slice myself in two.
Revealing multiple layers
of skin, flesh, and core
Revealing sections that can be peeled apart
like an orange
and
individually savored
or dissected
by your precious appendages.
Hello, I own a brain.
With which, I compress every centimeter of existence, creating a stream of consciousness that
spills from my fruit
in pulp filled droplets
onto the paper basin
that can be handled and tilted
and held in the light of a windowpane
or the darkness of a night.
Pleased to meet you.
I invite you to take both hands
and hold my pitcher to your lips
and taste a refreshingly healthy sip
of my soul.