Thursday, November 29, 2012

it's never about wrong and right

It always comes down to this: sadness. An unending, halcyon ocean of aching sadness; never overwhelming, or unbearable but persistent and perennial. This melancholy is a hanging sentence I had plunged into, without knowing when or how, only to discover that there is no full-stop - only innumerable ampersands.

There are secrets that clot the arteries in my heart and weigh me down in this truculent ocean, while I thrash and kick and splutter, only I lied - I didn’t. I didn’t fight this grief, instead I surrendered myself whole-heartedly to it, because in a twisted, morbid, masochistic sense, I like it. I like it because I deserve it, because I can never be completely sure that I exist, that I’m not a reflection or a dream of a doppelganger in an alternate universe. I like it because it made me feel, and it hurt and you know what they say - pain means you’re still alive.


But these secrets, these thoughts are choking me up from the inside and these knotted words I cannot utter. These malignant sarcomas I would carry in me and they would eat me up slowly, poison my blood and my lymph.

Perhaps someone would understand, perhaps if I whispered to them the contents of these little tumors they wouldn’t flinch, or judge but even then I wouldn’t. They are mine to bear and mine alone and I have come to be possessive of them. So even when I’m squirming with the need to confess all, to scream it out at the top of my lungs, to purge my soul of the grotesquery, I wouldn’t. Not really.

Sometimes I wonder where all these anger and frustration and resentment and sadness sprung from. Well yes, I suppose I do know, but the knowledge of its derivation only served to sadden me further since it suggests that this is not merely a phase but a pervasive disposition that had been molded from all-too-many factors dating back years ago.

And it depresses me that you, of all people, don’t understand.

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Dear Cesare,

I was perfect. I was bloody perfect until you showed up in your cardinal robes (fuck you no one's supposed to look sexy in a cardinal robe dammit) and strutted around my carefully planned out schedule. I was an angel gazing peacefully down at the chaos in the human realm and I was sadistically happy until you ripped off my wings and I plunged into the wilderness.

And in that madhouse of disorderliness, I spent an entire day watching movies; well watching you and your fucking tight ass and your beautifully sculpted back and shit you shall not distract me!!!

Damn you Cesare Borgia, you devil.

Monday, November 19, 2012

incoherence is what you do to me


you invade my mind,
fuck this my mind is too incoherent
for comprehensible sentences
it’s all
cesare cesare cesare
between litanies of et in arcadia ego
and tremens factus sum ego
(insert adjectives that... well, insert verb)
no no i don’t know what i’m saying
because he’s not pretty, he’s not
he’s dark and he’s morbid
and god you’re so sad why’re you so sad?
you know i love sad men
and say it, say it once more, twice more, thrice,
a thousand times more
say "i'd die"
because you said it with such calmness,
such matter-of-factness
but you’re no monster, cesare borgia,
are you?
only you must be, to prowl in my head all day
and consume my thoughts all night.
you must be, must be,
cesare,
eleison.

Sunday, November 18, 2012

dear cesare,


nessuno.

I am nobody, you said in that sad sad tone
I am nothing, and the way you said it, the stars would
fall from the sky from crying too hard, all the while wiping stellar-snot
from their coruscant faces.

I couldn’t say anything, couldn’t reassure you,
wrap my arms around you and negate you
because you are. You are nothing.
You are conspicuously, unapologetically
non-existent.

And when I turned around to face you there was only
the enveloping darkness - that
and the unbearable, unforgiving coldness
of loneliness.

Saturday, November 17, 2012

i love you as certain dark things are to be loved


i cannot write poetry about you.
you, whom i’ve known for all but
thirty-five hours.
but these were hours of lust and desire and
covetousness and these feelings
are my dearest, most loyal friends.

so i said, between swoons and sighs,
my heathen, you are dark tonight;
you are black as your heart, black as your pitiless eyes
burning into mine
as you grind me - oh grind me to dust,
to small particles of nothingness
yes, nothingness,
for ever and ever,
amen. (for you love that word, do you not?)

libera me, domine, de morte aeterna,
amen.
always these words, my heretic, my darling,
my cesare.
are you that afraid of the eternal slumber?

i cannot write poetry about you,
because the thought of you renders me febrile,
and words and coherence elude me.
and only your apocalyptic latin hymns
will soothe my feverish soul.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Haiku Love Story



I've been sucking on my thumb again
Sleeping
Trying to remember you. 

Friday, November 2, 2012

why i do not hate cersei lannister as much as i should:



This (and more) Will Explain Why I'm MIA


I really shouldn’t be here because

My ass cheeks hurt
From sitting too long in this
Plastic chair that I should
Never have bought.
She told me so
And I imagine the blood
Clotting in my ass, as
My weight presses down on it
And the cells scream for oxygen
The way I scream for you
And for ice-cream
And my eyes scream
and my eyes cream. 
But I can’t
I can’t get up
Because I have two and a half more
Chapters of anthropology to study
For a midterm that is
Too close for comfort.
And still here I am
Writing about things that
Make no sense
And too-intimate details
About my personified ass.