pressure me on purpose with that sarcastic tone, knowing later you’ll think about my hands and whether they’d grip you the same. had i softened? did you wish that i had?

you wanted the driveway at twilight. you needed white wine and classics and music to which you could sing along. you might even dance after a few glasses, but i’d better not pressure you if i had any intention of living.

i required a single inhalation of lavender. the rhythmic sound of the wild becoming tame was purely an amenity.

“are you awake?” came a whisper.

and somehow, through a sigh,

“the moon is…”


my arms are bare and almost scarless, but i won’t wear that dress. all i have for show and tell is a wince from words you stole and the sting of my kidneys as they sort the poison.

“resistance is futile,” i am reminded. some inner sense longs to shout out a warning. instead, fear quiets me. i leave you with mere fractions of complex theories i wouldn’t dare divulge in entirety. if i cannot share it, and i cannot beat it, i can certainly shrug.

i justify my silence the way most egos do with fancy dissonance. could it be that certain truths told will always reek of arrogance, even cruelty? i am not the keeper of knowledge, but i have begun to examine moments when honesty ceases to be an option – when lies seemingly hold us at gunpoint.

after all, does the dress ever make the inquirer “look fat” according to the responder?


you asked about tuesday before you mentioned the hollow of my eyes. mondays were better. you could help me out if only i would promise one thing. i hated making promises.

i could hook you up, i’d remind you. i could make you happier. you, of course, didn’t need my offerings. i insisted while you persisted. two. one. more. one. none. could you even be trusted? our voices would climb in volume before eventually dissolving into laughter. it was always this way with you.

“butter,” i said as i recommended ways to save your memory.

the truth was that we could never melt because you’d be counting and i couldn’t stand to be average. 

when i was feeling whimsical, my facial expressions would make you fall apart. you’d become a complete wreck of euphoric tears; hysterical sobs.

“why are you so fucking funny?”

we engaged in cheers between shots and beers. i’d pretend to absorb your shady advice, ignoring the ways in which you always thought of yourself first. still, if i was funny, you were smooth. and i’d continue to work on my sarcasm. 

after all, i did promise, did i not? 

you’d find ways to reach me behind my walls yet you fully understood my need for space. and i had those days. we both did. sometimes we’d rate them when feeling bold or jaded. other times, without explanation, we just wouldn’t show. between us, all was understood.

upon my return, i’d find your detailed recollections of previous days. you’d relay every moment i’d missed in vivid detail with a strange tone of perfection. i wondered if you were secretly a professional. i’d respond nonchalantly as though i hadn’t just consumed a masterpiece of sorts. and i’d selfishly continue to consume these hidden works of art week after week.

“tell me why i don’t like mondays,” i’d demand, quoting one of my favorite musicians.

your eyes would roll but we both knew you relished your understanding of obscure references. for that reason alone, i would feed these to you.

i would then reference the ways in which i also loved to understand while simultaneously swearing that i’d had my fill of understanding as a whole. you joked that i should change my name to paradox. briefly, i considered it. 

still: mondays.  every single monday, you would serve me breakfast.

“tell me why i don’t like mondays,” i’d ask again.

“because you’re a pain in the ass.”

i couldn’t argue.


what if i told you that if i exposed you to a specific combination of sensory material that i could entirely change some of your preferences within a matter of minutes?

what if i told you i could make you crave the trigger material so much that the desire for the preference would become a preference in and of itself?

further, what if i told you that with the simple symphony of senses, you could become a virus of sorts which would, inevitably, infect others?


sometimes i’d think of the coast and how i’d never really been there, not the way i’d have liked anyhow, and the ways it could have been different. i could have been different. i’d recall this one dreamlike moment when i looked up and my feet were in the atlantic and your eyes were dark. was that real? and in the pacific, did we find a surreal ocean paradise surrounded by mountains?

were we ever really there? were we ever actually real?

did we taste the salt for ourselves? i can’t remember tasting it, but i feel certain that i would dip my tongue into any ocean given the chance. my lack of this memory feels jarring. then there are moments when all of this feels fantastical. sometimes i still wonder if we’re lost in the mri. i think you wonder too.

bodies separate from souls in mirrors that are gazed in too long, so we don’t look closely.


you can’t cover a life-long empty search with shallow repetitious patterns. you cannot hide your soul from the failures of the flesh. and you cannot come to terms with this, it would seem. numb fingers and cold hearts were metaphorically, and yet quite literally, made for one another.

she deserves rest and a sense of basic decency. you haven’t you been able to be, even at the very least, decent. you’re feeling more alone, aren’t you? well, are you not?

perfectly placed prose do not create truth. keep doing all you can to squash that illusion.

i wished, moments ago, that she would wake up and that she would bring her spirit. i fantasized that, in a flash, any negative aura that might be surrounding my own might die on impact.

i thought, then, “maybe we are alone exactly the way we are meant to be,” but suddenly i heard footsteps down the hallway followed by a muffled yawn.

and i realized that a yawn had never sounded so beautiful.


a few things:

i’m not sure i can come back from this and i’ve come to resent “rediscover this day.”

she slips in small visions of other realities as though i’ve retained any capability with which to breathe them into a full experience.  i never mention that her efforts are in vain.  i strive to hide the thick blue of my physical veins. when i see them, i think momentarily of waves crashing violently through flesh. quickly, i flip my wrist face down lest it call out some warning incubus mentioned one day long, long ago.

the mirror cannot reside next to me any longer during my slumber. on the other hand, the sheets and blankets have remained piled high since i was a young child. this element of my so-called existence has not changed. it is refreshing to experience some commonality.

there is more visual noise, or snow, and there are anomalies and peculiarities which this mind cannot easily wash away.  i see others drifting further into the machine even from inside these walls.  i see some “system of a down.”

“are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“no. yes. no. yes.”

i don’t want her to wake up yet because i refuse for her to wake up in anyone else’s “wasteland” and i’ll never be able to salvage the damage.

1, 2, 3

1, 2, 3

six hundred sixty-six

very few get the opportunity to tell the story of their demise. even fewer set out to do so. i will not be one of those rarities this time around despite my previous convictions.

i no longer find explanations vital. as of late, i have come into the understanding that most explanations serve as coping mechanisms (see: excuses) for thought patterns which the atrophied brain does not wish to address.

they told me that i have five senses.

it would seem unsurprising, then, that the brain is allegedly so weak, “using only a mere fraction of its power.” i do find it surprising that the majority is perfectly fine with this theory and wish to do nothing more to access the rest of our given operating system.

is there nobody who wants more? do you even brain lift, bro?

a precognitive dream that is entirely accurate down to the finest details may awaken one to the fact that other capabilities are within arm’s reach. in this case, perhaps i should say “mind’s reach.” but you won’t reach anyway, will you?

would you feel more comfortable if i were to replace the word “senses” with “capabilities?” then, might you reach?

what if i told you that you have six hundred sixty-six capabilities?

would you find the attempt easier then and set out to expand? or would you resist due to superstitions regarding numerology? perhaps it’s just easier to stick with the original five.

rest now. a storm is coming, i’ve heard.

an incubus stated, “when it comes, it comes abrupt.”

when was the last time you experienced deja vu?

sense or ship

you would hide right here as your sole hobby, trusting me, never honoring the frivolous. you would rest underneath my crook of my arm where you found it a bit sweet even against all of that sour. our two formed pieces of flesh would merge into one and synergy would come in the form of energy and for a moment i would feel that we could be god. but only if we were an i.

i used to write to prisoners regularly as one of my sole hobbies. they would begin to trust me. i let them hide in the verbiage and not worry about the darkness. their cold narratives rested inside of me and i found a bit of sweetness even against all of the sour. two separate realities merged into one understanding through the letters and synergy came in the form of energy and for a moment the pages felt like they could be a bible. but only if they were a book.

people used to burn books. people still burn books. people will burn all of the books.

these days, they claim they just like to “kindle fire.”

on board or in tow?

when decisions were to be made, i was likely to falter.  i’d become aware of it immediately, feel burdened by a sense of rush, and then hastily choose incorrectly.  my decisiveness resembled my lack of navigational direction.  i’d hated change, always, and i would hide from it.  my weakness was thick and obvious.  still, despite this hideous display of ugliness, i’d continue to strut with a certain arrogance, making it all the worse.

who was i?

and why did the air seem to grow thick the moment my proud, unworthy foot stepped into a room?

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