personal

SOL: Realidad

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Drinking red wine for breakfast
Each kiss tasting sweeter than
Your last cigarette, hand rolled, artist’s fingers
Leaving paint smudges on skin like
A canvas, tangible mementos
Terrace doors thrown open to the
Breeze, early summer sun casting
Illicit shadows on pristine white walls
You come only when she calls in the
Ultimate deceit
Wrought iron balcony turns into a
Late evening show, railing grasped tight
White knuckles, threatening to burst through skin
Sweaty repentance mixed with late night
Confessions, empty of remorse
Leaving on tip-toe while the house is still
Silent, praying no one ever knows

3AM Thoughts // AKA “Most Delicious As A Mistress.”

SOL: Sonder

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I love you and
So I sit on each lonely terrace smoking
Poorly rolled cigarettes and dreaming
Of a different denouement, same climax
Something juicier I can sink my teeth into
Here I might have given you whatever
I have left, anything that had not been
Lifted from me already by worthless hands
(Yes, I still think of your fingers on my neck
But I digress)
Laughing in spite of myself, drinking bottomless
Coffee cups to soothe the lump in my throat
The emptiness that opened in my chest
When I said I was leaving and you said
It was for the best

3AM Thoughts // AKA “A Lesson In Indulgence, A Crash Course In Self-Control.”

SOL: Delusions

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He thinks I write for him
Pouring laboriously over prose that
Sweeps him away like a current
It is his love of disaster that keeps us
Entwined, not the sound of my laughter
Fingers twitch, mind swells and he pulls me
Reluctantly across another stage of
Which he is the omnipresent master
Churning my words into oblivion, getting
High on sonnets and lost in translation
He leaves me shouting at mirrors, my
Sideways glances fall short of his vast
Interpretations, when I told him I was
Leaving he wrote me thirty love letters
Desperately believing we will end up together

3AM Thoughts // AKA “Me Walking Away Is Not A Romantic Act.”

SOL: Distant

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The sickening moment of
It can’t be real, go back
The infinitesimal seconds between before and
After where everything is different
When it’s all so new that
You can’t even feel the hurt yet
The twenty-three seconds of suspense
Of self-induced purgatory, of serendipitous imbalance
Floating in a daze and staring in wonderment at
Karmic retribution, a vicious circle
The tricks a tired brain plays and
The drunk heavy tongue telling you it could have been worse
And you know it’s true but you still want
Seventy-five seconds of mourning
Or maybe twenty-four hours of loathing
Cursing the ill-fated luck that brought you
This lesson, imaging what you could have done differently until
It all blurs and you lose touch with reality
Again

3AM Thoughts // AKA “He Watches With Disdain As I Disappear Inside My Mind.”

MIND: Vice

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So I withdrew to the farthest corner of my little room, sat on the floor, squeezed myself in between two walls, my head bowed. Yes. And sat there. Absolutely still. My heart was once again frozen and would not melt; every outlet was blocked and my brain squeezed by a large vice. And what I am waiting for whenever I sit huddled up like that is for something to give, for something to start flowing inside me.

Letters from Westerbork // Etty Hillesum

MIND: Sliced

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…I’ve never felt good with the crowd. I never belonged, I still do not belong, but the worst part is I do not even belong with the best ones, the living ones. I seem sliced off forever by some god damn trick, either my imagining or some type of insanity, but even the good ones leave me dangling and I feel like a fool, and I know that I am a fool for I feel what I know…

Screams From The Balcony // Charles Bukowski