thirteen point five
decembers are the hardest of all.
often i lie down on my back
and let my blood turn cold let my blood
freeze to death.
i've never been less content or more lonely-
there are no more beautiful things.
sometimes i cannot seethe at my misery.
sometimes i look at you and my heart gets so full
sometimes you look back and i crumble down
my fingers ache for a touch of your skin.
my heart longs to be loved back.
the winter air smells like cheap old mattresses and
stale death. i cut my wrists and bleed out red
i look inside my throat and claw out veins in disgust.
in the night
sometimes i dream of cradling you in my arms
sometimes i wake up and cry.
(is this what Yeats said was love? that bastard)
love is a laughable thought and yet
i write in the dark on yellow dog-eared pages hoping
love will find me hidden away
in the folds of your flesh one day.
words are blasphemous when love is god)
sometimes I smile quietly at you
sometimes you smile back and slowly,
slowly i break down into tiny little pieces-
digestible, (and perhaps slightly) loveable.
(Yeats always did know what he was talking about.