12.12.07

It breaks, my heart.
No one to hold my wind beaten
Fingers between theirs.
Another one of those tired nights.
Why doesn't anything real ever happen
To me?
I dream & write & talk to others about
Their problems, but I have no
Suffering for myself.
Those nights are hard sometimes
My body shakes.
My eyes tremble.
I want to drive or walk.
Smoke.
Something.
That might provoke the feelings
To quench themselves against my
Always smiling face.
It would be helpful to think that maybe
There is a real reason why my
Fingers are weak against the pen
& I want to curl inside myself.

The boys are everywhere.
All with names & faces & bodies
To speak & feel & touch
But all carrying with them
Emptiness; pretty boxes.
The truth of the matter is
Al the end of the day
I am alone.
I am different, alien, estranged.
I am broken into so many pieces
& I can't figure out how I became
So disassembled.
Feeling so much burns my bones.
Sears my marrow
Serves my fried nerves up to
Petty sorrow.
I don't know what I need to
Feel better but I am so
Drained & desperate for a break
From reality.
That must be why I want all
Those boys.

They are my drug.
I can have them for a few
Hours
Get off
Then buy more later
FUCK!
I WANT TO BLEED.

and I'm skipping class tomorrow.