If I could be like anything —
I should be like The White Roses.
Knowing surely there would be a day,
they’d all be picked
and pulled away.
Still stubbornly growing.
(bigger, bolder, braver,
toward the sun)
Roots tightly wrapped
around poisoned earth
where they were birthed.
Sharpening their thorns — in secret.
Stabbing the places
the gardener was weakest.
If I could be like anyone
(In how they lived and what they’ve done)
I would be like The White Rose
It is not your beautiful friend’s burden
to lift your heavy eyes up off of the ground.
Just more of man’s original sin:
Laying his weight across the shoulders of a woman
unlucky enough to be around.
But your sad eyes can’t see this.
Their selfish too strong
and you, too weak to keep them in line.
So you find
that when she walks into the room,
they shudder, shake, wake and wind
Starting where her foot meets the floor.
Pulling themselves up with both hands
from the cold onto her.
Stiff and slow (at first) feeling their…
Research into the hypoalgesic effect of swearing has shown that the use of profanity can help reduce the sensation of pain.
I’m not insane
I’m not insane
I’m just in pain.
An hour after she told me you moved on
I’m still stuck
in a loop of the hypoalgesic effect.
I’m screaming fuck into the windshield
the entire drive from Dallas
(for hours on end)
because my body is trying to fight
my anguish with adrenaline
trying to make an enemy
of my memory
I scream so loud my own ears ring.
I don’t have an answer.
I will write my own Bible.
I will make my own Math.
Science is mine to play with as I please,
and I please.
And please, don’t tell me I can’t
do these things.
do all things,
because I am man
There used to already be a Bible
(when I had her)
Math and Science had rules
and Gravity and History were real
(when she had me)
But now I feel,
nothing means nothing means nothing means nothing
means I am free.
“Oh Lord Nihilism, protect me
from the spears of my pain.
Oh Loving Existential Dread…
She won’t have three drinks
then go looking for something to smoke.
You won’t notice and go out to join her.
You won’t light her cigarette with a joke.
The feelings won’t come flowing back
with that little act
You won’t be able to look at her with eyes
that say everything
she says you’re not allowed to say anymore.
You won’t lie when she asks how you’re doing.
You won’t cry when she asks how you’re doing,
or tell the truth about finally getting help.
Your depression finally being felt
and finally being dealt
It’s not too late
the axe whispered to the only tree it ever loved
branches cracking and breaking
as it was dragged away (against its will)
Please come back please
screamed the gun after the bullet it would die for
trigger still tightly squeezed
and bloody barrel hot still.
I can change I can change I can change I will —
cried hundreds of furious forest fires
to millions of animals that had already fled
(or they would have been dead)
I’ll do anything god anything please
I’m so sorry
my sadness was in my eyes
but now I see.
The next time Silence and Sobriety meet
they will work together
to tear me apart.
They will start, by destroying the wall
I’ve made around my mind.
Storming in and dragging out
every painful moment they can find.
Sobriety will hold me down
while Silence holds open my eyes
as they march each memory by — slowly.
Again and again. Especially the end.
Then, they will fill my mouth with regret —
so much it moves down my throat
and I choke, but they won’t stop
until my lungs pop.
When I stop struggling, Silence and Sobriety will whisper what-ifs…