On love and loss

Although I wouldn’t give up the feeling of and memories of being in love for anything, what you have to face in reminiscing and longing for that same intimacy is one of the hardest processes to go through.


Consumption of the most unhealthy kind. Consumed by bad love, the type that makes you feel so bad it starts to feel good. Like pressing a bruise, the pain is nice, so you do it again. But what happens when the pain is no longer there and you’re healed? What if you crave one more taste of the illness, just one more touch.


Though the sun doesn’t blaze into our bed,
I am consumed by warmth.
Perchance it is from you?
Your strong figure pressed against mine.
Perchance it is from inside myself…

You’ve always told me I glow when I smile.
 I smile like that when I think of our future.
Your arms around me,
Softly and securely,
Make me smile like that.

We don’t need the sun here.


Now as our scen…

Now as our scene draws to a close
I reveal my stream of conciousness,
or maybe a case of flared logorrhea.

I am Lucky,
I am unlucky.
I have brought this upon myself.

Words, words, words.
Those that encase me in a tomb.
Words, words, words.
A shovel of dirt is the last gift of kindness
that you will ever impart to me.


And I lay there,
silent tears scuttle down my cheeks
my quivering bottom lip draws the yellow eye
of a cat.

I want to speak to it, apologise to it
for I am not her.
I want to speak to it, apologise to it
for she is the cat’s mother.

And I lay there,
knowing her existence
is the lynch pin to my insanity.
And I lay there.
I hate cats.