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In Brooklyn

I left your ass in Cali
but I still can’t shake you off
my shoulders. So, you hang there.

In Brooklyn, I’ll get my fix.
You will be stumbling on
white little tippy toes
till you trip, and fall flat
on your face, in a thrifted
ill-fitting pants suit.

Who’s laughing now?

Still not me,
I’ll be in Brooklyn; smooching
on models - writers, actors and other artists - whose aim
is to make sense of themselves in a world without meaning.

Confession #326

I ache to slit open the last bit of heart still beating. If I had the option to, I would suck up chimneys of cigarette smoke and wreck the last of the lung tissue that has finally started to heal. I would have gladly fucked it all up hours ago, if I’d have crawled my way to the bar like I was supposed to.

There is no one in this goddamn city worth a batted eyelash. Ugly and wrinkled up, toothless and brain dead. Tonight, I’ll be browsing OkCupid profiles in states that aren’t mine; wishing I was sooner dead than single. Then as it gets later I’ll self-indulge in shameless masturbation until my hands cramp up.

What’s left of this summer is a generous amount of pain and suffering. I can’t change the fact that there have only been tears and temptations for the last two months. I have nothing to offer the citizens of Indiana. It’s like they want to be painfully bland.

What would it take to get a goddamn slice of the pie? I’ve been sitting at the picnic for nearly four goddamn years. Just because I don’t want to eat shit off the floor doesn’t mean I want to fucking starve. Is that what life is? The option to eat dirt or starve? I wouldn’t discount it. Life is a cruel joke. It is meaningless and tempestuous and lengthy.

If I had any guts or sense I’d end it now. 

Sacral Chakra

When is it my turn?
I ask in a whimper, as I masturbate on the linoleum bathroom floor.

I’m glad you’re happy and all but I want a chance to come over and lay in his bed, running my finger across his scruff and then teeth. -

The closest thing I’ve had to a committed relationship was with my netflix account.

Brokeback Mountain and a bowl full of kettle corn.
The irony of watching two straight men kiss then get killed; romance indeed.

- You kiss the tip(s) of my finger(s)

I want to ride planes with you. I want to run marathons with you.
Take shots with you.

There will be nothing like our love and my belief must go on for it to finally unlock the door.

I beg to see myself as others see me.


You sick and pathetic woman!
Your dramatic sighs make me shrivel up into thin air.
I have always been a deformed sprout because
you scoured the gardens with pesticides since the moment I touched soil. I never had a chance to bloom, let alone see blue skies.

I give up this time. I mean it.
The devil never lied even half as much as you do;
long apologies that could sweep the Academy Awards.

And I accept them all blindly, openly, my red cheeks stained with tears as I bellow my forgiveness

That feeds you like a cruel joke. You’re a fat pit bull on concrete scarfing down vulnerability in a rusty metal bowl.
You crafty, greedy bitch. You know exactly how to get me.

You disgusting insipid! Get away from me!
Your kind belongs beneath the sewer sludge.

Eat shit and die, cunt. I’m done.
Your next apology will be the paper for a blunt
and I’ll smoke away into cloudy nothingness,
remembering how our feud is nothing more than a petty conversation
made to pass time until one of us passes.

See you in hell,
or Christmastime,
whichever comes first.

Confession #325

I’ll never go “home” again. I am laying awake in my childhood bed; in my childhood room of my childhood home.

Part of me has flown the coop. No matter how many hugs I give, or pictures I see, there will be no going back.

Tonight, I unraveled in front of the television. My soul picked itself apart over the fact that I desperately crave connection with my mother, my father; my family. There is a void in our relationship. It separates me from feeling the unconditional love my parents say they have for me.

To feel accepted by my “family,” I realized I must shut off a portion, or a better majority, of who I am inside and out. It’s like, to be affirmed at home, I have to be a business professional in a cut throat interview. I can never just be me; seamlessly, irrevocably, and unapologetically me.

In the closet, the void felt invisible, and I wasn’t fully aware of it, because I was dead to my very core. I sashayed out under the moon’s naked eye and immediately felt the chill of her world. And the sting of my mother. Fear rules nearly everything under the sky.

I can never go “home” again, even if going home were something I really wanted. I am a man of fierce integrity and I will not settle for anything less than unconditional love.

I am flying to another coastline in search of it and I have never been more assured of my need for it.


I don’t believe in anything because I believe in everything.
I pick up theories like handfuls of sand scattering it through the air and rubbing it over my body. It’s course texture softens my skin.

I let the seagulls pick apart my heart and I pretend I never needed it.
I grow bitter and swallow whole bonfires.

I leave the beach stoned,
guilty of medieval morals
and sulking in the back seat of the car.

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