repeat offender

my only crime was the recidivism
that wrote itself on our lips;
fetid kisses that left
a cloying stench in the air,
and wrote apocryphal tales
to denigrate decency

I buried you in the 9th level of my heart

I found poetry in every word you spoke,
every sentence that reminded me
that
I was no paramour,
since that
would connote affection;

just a skeleton in the closet
being lowered into the ground

open secrets

contrition
shone through your eyes

sparkled like shooting stars
who had forgotten
that their destination was
subterfuge

(but only you
will never know)

crossed signals

I can recall nights
where I pieced together
your eclectic heart
like a patchwork quilt,
but your soul had an abscess
as pernicious as a perfidious confidante

I'm so lonesome I could cry

I collect sobriety
in johnny cash lyrics

the same way I miss you

nancy writes to hartigan

there is an oasis
hidden
in the middle
of your chest

underneath
an adamantium shell
resolute in its cynicism

so I write sonnets
addressed to your desert
though I've never been,

because it's the only place
that makes me
believe
in redemption

the roots dug in

when we were children
you climbed up fire escapes
towards emancipation

and broke through
glass ceilings the way
we rolled down hills

queer theory

your experimentation
left pock marks on my neck
the way heteronormativity
planted ringworms like kisses

programming errors

class your {
elaborate circumlocution() {
for ( on the radiator ; every time ; you loved my bones )
// as
if ( that could form ) {
quixotic affections }
else { affectations }
}

bruising( my countenance, like perdition ) {
because there is love in all violence
}
}

---

I shot Hope
through the heart
with a doe-eyed shotgun,
but optimism saved her.

wish you were here

roger waters
must've never
wrote of desperation

'cause those lost souls
are at the bottom of fish bowls
bluer than those moonlit eyes
that show up as seldom as
chemistry between lovers ignites

happy ending

I folded up your words and put them in my pocket
'til sentences like that became trinkets
I carried around in my soul

the sounds of your footsteps
echo in the lines in the emergency room
and they speak volumes
because baby,
your life is a fairytale
without redemption at the end

a conversation between milton and nietzsche

your words are filled with saccharine and
the cloying stench clouds judgment
so here's a verbose gesture

because you animated this creature;
created that angel doomed to downfall
abys(m)al monsters that you breathed life into,
so call.
Call for salvation.
Where is your God now?

So stare, lest it gaze back at you
because this was not the first time
camaraderie was stolen from me
won't be the last time you fall into the abyss