Confession.

Forgive me father for I have sinned.

I have kept a meaty part of myself under tight lock and key, I have hidden the darkness I bathe in so deep now I cannot breathe.

I must confess this now, before I choke on me;

I want to drown in this swirling mess, I want to suffocate so fucking badly.

Why haven't I been able to turn this bathwater red?

The idea of it is so enchanting, so soft against my desperately un-mottled skin,

so smooth against my tragically unscarred face.

Light.

Lost in the has-to-be-fiction of these nights
completely addicted to the sound of brewing storms
and finally,
as the rain fell, we held hands.
The dirt and I was washed away
by the torrential knowledge of what it finally was.
The flood,
the fire.
The smell of pepper and cherries on your skin,
and I,
hungrier than ever before.

Disintegrated.

A blade
of grass

A murder
of crows

A shot
of Vodka

A sharp
opinion

The curse
of beauty

The blood
of oranges

Drowning
of sorrows

The kiss
of death.

And my shattered mind.

Perfect.

In the abyss of frustration
sleeping in smoky rooms
and wearing wine stained t-shirts
listening to Nirvana
and only eating your words,
you called me.

I can't tell you how flattered I am.
Really.

You Are.

You are.
The brilliant poem
I cannot write,
the string of words
I cannot pearl together.

You are.
My unwritten song of 90 days.