First signs of Carly brilliantly beautiful in a non-blonde and blue-eyed kind of way. Not a classic but definitely my type I find. With the black hair and the gorgeous brown eyes making it that much harder to be alone. She drinks but is never drunk. I’m out of words. My head hurts. I’m tired.
J.R’s birthday got drunk on red death and car bombs. Chewed an ear off or two about love and loss. Constant in my predictability. Felt friendship strong. Three conversations deep and on and on. Long and pending, hoping for the never-ending comfortable.
Red death and car bombs, a girl in love with a drunk I’d die inside you. A climax insighted by sweetness. My sweet death. Caressing you. Every hot breath with you. “Wouldn’t it be fun to fall in love with a drunk”. Red death and car bombs. This and thats: long island iced teas and manhattans. The only things I like about the city. Hoping you’re getting as dizzy as me. A kiss. A first kiss when the only spin the bottle I’ve been playing is where the bottle spins to my lips and I drink her all down. Your taste is that sweet and your touch kills the cells it needs to. So, I’ll combine the two things that I love the most; I’ll order you on the rocks with a twist and toast to the beginning of a better life. A better lie but what’s next? Hoping it’s finally more than just sex. Finally getting over a three-year hangover of apathy. A vacation of break down. I’d die inside you. I’m blinded by you and I hope you’re getting dizzy because I need you to drink me.
Coronas and cape codders (a guy in love with a drunk) wear nothing but your drink because you wear it well and I want that taste in my mouth. The taste of your body. The tastes of cape codder or corona because I know those are your favorites and that’s what would’ve been spilled all over you. I’m all over you. Superglue my lips to yours instead of soldering my own shut. I’m not as upset about being a big mouth. It’s been working out well, though I seem to tell the same stories. Anyway, enough about me and more about you cause I’d give it all up in true martyr form. I want to take this pile of shit excuse of a beating in my chest, put it into a heart-shaped box and pack it with ice to keep it as alive as it is right now. Then I’d send it over to you. 71 Chester st. no return address because I don’t want it back. Just do me a favor. Give me your neck to have and to hold, to bite and to suck. That birthmark brings out the vampire in me. My fangs showing as I swipe your bangs out of your eyes. So, I can look into your closed eyes and think about how unclothed you should be. My bed is so much better with you in it. Pleasure Island.
Reworked I’ll stare into you eyes closed while you sleep and think about how unclothed you should be. Stains on your shirt from a night of spilling but you wear your drinks and I wish it was nothing but because you’d wear them well and I want that taste in my mouth. The taste of your body. The tastes of cape codders or coronas because I know those are your poisons of choice. I’ll leave my hollowness for you to fill with whatever you like. I want to be re-built. A born-again schoolboy again. I can’t help thinking how much better my bed is with you in it.
Stick out tongue, insert in cheek it’s all just an illusion so fuck it, suffer from delusions of grandeur if she makes you feel like a God for one night and one night only because you should live fast and love even faster. Die in your prime. We don’t have that much time on this earth anyway, so don’t waste it. Live, love, get wasted. Isn’t that just brilliant. Fuck you, it’s genius. A fetus with a cell phone in hand because girls like that are born with boyfriends who keep them on a tight leash. Probably from messes like me. You become what you read and what you see. You are what you drink and what you eat. So, I say abuse your body and the truths of it may set you free. Abuse your body then use me for my body though I’m less brawn and more brain. The infected wound. The last days of a lifetime spent trying to crawl back into a dead mother’s womb. Ain’t that the cycle of life? And maybe this is all just coming from the fact that I get paid minimum wage to contemplate mortality on every Tuesday, Thursday and weekend day. I see the cold and the alone. The too old to live on their own. And it gets to the black pile of shit excuse for a beating in my chest that I try and put into a heart shaped box packed with ice to keep it as alive as humanly possible. And that’s why I abuse my body. And that’s why you should use me for my body. I live for the sped up palpitations in the chest. The tiny revelations packaged in a shortness of breathe. What being high means to me. Abuse your body and die in your prime. It’s all just an illusion anyway. All in your head.
Beginnings of bachelorette I’ll stare into your eyes closed while you sleep and think about how unclothed you should be. Stains on your shirt from a night of spilling filling my head with the thoughts that you should’ve worn nothing but your drinks cause you would wear them so well and I’d love that taste in my mouth. The taste of your body. The taste of coronas and cape codders because I know that those are your poisons of choice.
What love does constantly disillusioned. The only constant is disappointment. I’m miserable again. les miserable. Ser sui un bonum. I don’t think I can handle this shit. Falling again. It was fun for a while but now all the fears and looks to the past are back. Thought I’d be better about it now because I convinced myself that I was ready. I was ready. I was ready. That I was fine. Trust is the hardest thing for me. Always. Cause I’ve been burned. Freezer burned. My intuitions were usually right and now I have them again. And I hate it. I hate the past. My past, her past, every past. Fuck, I hate it. Like she should’ve lived every moment knowing that she would be with me. I’m so fucking selfish. I’m such a fucking idiot. The only thing about being a guy. Fuck. I hate men. I hate everything. Depressed again. And the bottles reappear. I love her. I love her. I love. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I love her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. I hate her. And I don’t know how she feels. I am vulnerable. Too vulnerable. Letting too much of myself be exposed again and that’s never a good thing for me. I should get out. Isn’t this always the way? Isn’t this the constant struggle? A love affair in your own mind. This is where the games begin. And I’m not a player. Tried to convince myself of apathy. Pathos is back oh! And how it fucking sucks. What happened to not giving a shit? That was a lot of fun for me. I don’t know where her head is at and I’m just a fucking neurotic. Convinced that I should just be alone. Alone. I want to die alone. I am ready. I am ready. I am ready. I am fine.
Purity in drink I want you to be drunk and want to call me just to say goodnight and if you don’t, it’s not something that I want to fight about. I have just found that that’s when you’re the most pure.
City nightlife? Every time we go out in this city, it’s only for some sort of eighties’ night where everyone’s nose smells of cocaine as they’re wide-eyed and dancing to a dj who is his own biggest fan. I can only look around and think to myself “what the fuck am I doing here?” I don’t belong here. And I know it’s only music to you if it is brit pop but it’s not always at the top of my list. The only blur that I wanted to see that night was you through blurred vision because I enjoy a drink with friends now and again and again and again and again. But I don’t belong here if only for you. The dark red taste of wine on my lips only for you. One booth for two. Something we never had. A dinner we never got but I had intentions of a normal life for you and me. A normal dating game but even that is all about ratings because it only matters if everyone’s watching. “You’re with the beautiful couple, right?” words spoken to stinky as we danced and lost ourselves in each other as much as we ever could. As much as you would let it. And you care what people think. What people think is normal.
Another relationship done I kissed it all goodbye after I kissed you goodnight that one last time because I don’t have the strength to fight for what you don’t even know to be great. Now all I have is a memory of you to make love to. When you were with me, you were the shit but without me you’re only shit. And I have to hate you for it. And, believe me, I do. Because you slapped me in the face and gave me freezer burn. You are cold, you are cold, you are cold and you have no fucking feelings. And you have killed me just like all of the rest. And I am done. Done. Done. Done. Done. Done. Thanks for telling me. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you.
Up the beach I don’t know what you are thinking until you say it and words never fought passed your closed full lips. You said all of the right things but to the everyone else that never matters. And that’s how I find out. How I found out that you lack class. So sure in your adulthood. Ms. independent but you dealt with this like a child. And I hoped that this would be the one time where hatred would escape me. I debated about it and the verdict is in. I couldn’t be more pissed or more hurt. You bent me over and fucked me. I hope I was wearing lipstick at least. You have a way of stripping me of my dignity. Making me feel like less of a man. I’m done. I’m out. My middle finger isn’t speaking in tongues. It says and means the three words tattooed on my back “…so fuck off” more than you could ever say. Not even some simple syntax. And your story’s probably different. Have fun being alone. Because without me, you’re only you. And that isn’t as great as I thought it was. You made it clear with a slap to my face. Brilliant. And I’ll make it clear by being everywhere you’re not and by being everything that you thought I wasn’t. You were dead wrong. Dead. Dead to me. First I was crazy about you, then I was just crazy and now I need you to be dead to me. If you can’t be an adult about this, then how am I supposed to? “You’re being a kid.” “No, I’m being a drunk” so fuck you.
Falling to shit logic is cold and heartless. Sterile. Thinking with your head and using your reason. I am illogical. I am a train-wreck. I think in waves of passion and fuck your a to b existence. And now I have to chew my leg off to get out. It’s not going to be pretty. Not pretty like you. But I either die or live the rest of my life wounded. Pass the salt. Pour it in. you think with your head and I think with my heart so, on paper we never should’ve even started. But it felt so right when we were together. The kind of fit that a drug spins your life into. And I was high on your pheromones. Smoked them, drank them, shot them up, snorted them down. A quick fix to a non-existent problem. Pure bliss when we first kissed. How drunk do you have to be to actually fall in love with someone? With someone like me. Love is not a top priority on your list and it’s basically the only one on mine. To find what it truly means. Why is it so hard to wake up? It’s just opening your eyes. So open your eyes to me and my way of life. I’m neck deep into you. And the only thing that I’ve given you is a cold. I can’t provide the normal for you. I can’t be your norm, your status quo. That’s what should be exciting though. Shouldn’t it? You did that shit, over and over and all it got you was to me. That says something but you never look for meaning. Your rationale is based on numbers and stats. Figures and facts. I hope you find what you’re looking for if that’s possible. Because apparently I will never be good enough for you. Though I’ll continue to try for the rest of my god damned life. But someone else will end up reaping all the benefits. I wish that someone were you. Fuck! You should give yourself that chance. I’ve given you the greatest gift though you don’t even realize it. I’ve made you immortal. Lost you in a song, in a movie, in a fiction that is forever. It’s the only forever that you or I will ever know. Because this shit is fleeting and this shit is fading as it always has and probably always will. You are the closest I’ve come though. Maybe the closest that I’ll ever come. You are the only one. So take me with you. I’ll die alone because it’s not with you. And I’m not that sad about it. It might be where I belong. Alone. My life wasn’t meant for structure. It was meant for living. I should’ve known when it takes at least 3 glasses of wine deep to find myself deep inside of you. When you were concerned with everyone else’s sex life instead of the lack of yours. When I need to be touching you in order to fall asleep but you can’t sleep while I’m touching you. Light rub of the back or of the arms or of your neck. Giving you no warm feeling. Cold. Sterile. Surgical gloves for hands. You took away all of my powers. You confuse the shit out of me. I don’t do the things I want to. Take you and make you. A memory of you to make love to. Passion. Eat of the passion fruit. And call me. Because I would give you the best fucking of your life over and over again, if it were what you finally ever wanted. First moves aren’t my strong suit when it comes to you. Because you are dead. And I wish you were dead to me now. Because I don’t want to hurt. A memory of you to make love to.
U.s first I wish I could open up your chest plate, find your fuses and hotwire you. Can a robot be stolen? Cause I’d steal you.
Twenty-two teen angst life becomes teen angst transferred. We live like little bitches when teenagers. We get hurt; we focus on the hurt in the most immature of ways. Then we build up a wall, turn to stone because we feel like we know pain and have to shut down. And the only pain usually is unrequited love or first-love breakup bullshit. So we run around at eighteen and party our nuts off. Saying fuck you to pathos. Then life as we know it ends and all’s we can do is remember. And that only churns more pain. More reason to be stone. More reasons to turn hearts black. We keep running around and partying, saying…so fuck off to the thoughts of new loves. Then bam! Something real happens. The first real reason to feel pain. Adult hurt. A loved one lost. Dependencies on immaturities strengthen. Booze, drugs, sex without love. More lies, more walls built up. But we grow older and realize that that’s not really living. That that is in fact avoiding life. You only can feel something when you know it’s there. Pain let’s you know it’s there. Throb. Love the throbbing. Masochistic, right? Then you let your guard down at twenty-two and feel happiness strong, for maybe the first time ever. Everything fits in working order. Then summer lands and ruins you. Reminds you of the mess that your life has become. And now here you are again. All cooped up with a bottle supposedly numbing your pain. Ask the ice.
Drunk; noun a drunken mess of a drunken message. Thinking of being drunk and massaging your back in your bed. Where we used to have sex. At the foot. A drunken message telling of how I’m not fit to drive but left while I was driving. And they all just prove that you were right. I’m basically just validating your decision with my incompetence in facing my problems.
Drunk; adjective I’m already a 6 piece deep and it’s not yet 3:30 in the afternoon but it’s not unusual for me these lonely days. I’m bitter and alone. I’ll admit it to you and no one else.
Chicks for crutches you are the blonde for the moment, and I like brunettes. I only drink when I’m smoking and I am a smoker. Your eyes and your dark hair, what is apparently genetically inclined to be my type, leave me in need of damage control. Because I’m back to my messy ways again. I forgot how much fun it was though. I’m a dirt pile with legs and arms. You are the blonde of the moment but I’m into one brunette. And I am a mess again. Importance of friends and a place again. Home. Fuck everything. No one knows…no one gets it but me. My relationships are grounded in history. I wish I could say that your touch didn’t mean that much. But again I’m born a liar. Born-again.
Alcoholism if anyone actually needs me, I’ll be out in one of my favorite spots meditating and by that I mean that I’ll be on the porch of a new home self-medicating with cans of the faintest pale ale because light beer has been all I can afford this year. It’s the only thing that brings me peace and brings me closer to god, puts the voices in my head to sleep and oh yea, I almost forgot “hi, I’m chuck and I’m an alcoholic”. Spent a lifetime in denial of what is right and what is wrong. But I’m ready to tell it like it is, as I have always had a way of doing. I might be drinking for all the wrong reasons. “My baby done left me” type bullshit but it’s the only thing that feels right because my baby done left me.
We’re all whores run far away from the whore that we all know you are today, were yesterday and will be tomorrow. And I’ll follow suit because I’ve stopped being true to my morals. Piss poor performance as far as ethics are concerned. My tactics only putting me on a faster track to hell. A bastard child that fell from his high horse of standards. Sucking face, saying fuck it to fate because the one didn’t turn out to be the one. It was the closest I’ve come but still not close enough. So, fine fuck it…. you can be the blonde for the moment. It’s now what I live for. Whatever face that pleases me. It’s what I live for, the taste after the tease.
Need to leave the only thing I can do now is clean the shit off of the fan because it hit and hit big time. Broke the blades. Sent my world up in flames. And I know this way of life would come back and bite me on the ass. I just didn’t think it would bite so hard or so fast. You have to give up love in order to do what you love. What a fucking paradox right? When you have to live like at any moment you’d have to give it all up and drop everything in order to grow wheels and windows again and be off. The only lover being highway lines and audience minds because this very much is a mindfuck that will never end until a you a you and a you cum again. But maybe my concerns of pleasure should’ve stayed with just a one her. But this is what gives me peace, lets me sleep with a smile on the face. My passion, my fashion. The only thing we can make love to is sleepless drives and load in times where we’re always late. And of course there’s always the chance of getting laid. But I’m not much of the casual guy. I only have one thing on my mind. You. A ten year crush, a chance I could’ve took, but I fucked up and didn’t take the serious serious. Now I just want to fall in love in every state. Actually, fuck it, every city. So as to ensure that, when the inevitability of years of the road comes, I’d never be as lonely as I am now.
Resume it would be in your best interest to fall in love with me. I can’t believe that you think that I’m not good enough. And for a minute there (okay a couple minutes) I believed that you were right. What the fuck was I thinking? I am the shit. It would be in your best interest to fall in love with me. I am passion, I am ears in the early hours of the morning, I am witty, I am thoughtful, I am conversation, I am your shoulder, I am laughter, I am lazy Sunday afternoons, I am a drinker, I don’t smoke, I am teaching, I am learning, I am someone to be better for, I am someone who tries to be better, I am a constant search for meaning, I am everything every other him wishes to be, I am kisses for free, I am a touch that doesn’t mean that much to you anyway, I am late night back-rubs, I am any time of day wonder-fucks, I am immortality, I am the best you’ve ever had, I’m the only thing you’ll never know……believe me, it would’ve been in your best interest to fall in love with me. You wanted a business deal and here is my resume. You already know how good of an interview I give.
Still dealing like a mess if you thought I was a mess when I was with you, you should see me without. I’m about as messy as a train wreck. It’s ridiculous. With one flick of the wrist the shot glass hits my teeth and warmth barrels down my throat. I watch Nicolas cage drink himself to death as I drink myself to death. The liver’s only purpose is to remind you that you’re killing yourself slowly but surely and suicide has never been so much fun and more informative about the world we live in. where the best romance involves a drunk and a whore. When your body just gets so used to something that it just can’t function right without it. I’m not talking chemicals. Unless we’re talking about the chemical dependency of the chemistry between you and me. When you can apologize with just your eyes, fucking the words that just escaped your delicious lips. They all want to rip you from the claws of her heart, as they all want to rip you from the grip of your heart. Only the young know the illusion of poetry in the simplicity of a moment. What was beautiful between you and me becomes the disease of distance.
Still missed I miss our mornings, you in your towel, I miss our afternoons, you in your little sweats and a faded old t-shirt, and I, most of all, miss our nights when we lose each other in a drink, a movie, a dance, a TV show, a delicate fiction, and most importantly a kiss. Goodnight kisses validate life.
Statutory the things that I would do to you are illegal in more states than one because you are a year, one fucking year too young. And I’m never that guy that hears the yells of statutory. I’d rather stay stationary. Consenting adults, resenting the faults that leave every open sore for salt to be poured into. You would be a rebound. For me, found shit. Consenting adults, resenting the fall from grace as I look into your cute face the morning after. Never wanted to be that guy. No control.
New record of sobriety I finally find out why I have been how I have been for the past 4 years. Sluggish, lazy, dead. It’s because I’ve been an alcoholic. Now I’m making an effort again to be on the wagon. 6 days clean and sober now and I have more energy than I have had in a long time. I feel good. I’m over the hump of misery and withdrawals and I know that I’m going to be dry for a while. I just want to be better. Isn’t that funny. We do crazy things for love. How stupid is it to self-improve for someone else. But for me. And I will drink again, I know this. But I just want it to be saved for special occasion or dinners. Bring back the sweet. Cause I’ve known the sour. And then when it’s all sweet, that ain’t right either…it just becomes the norm. My life has been too sweet. I’ve indulged everyday. Everyday was a special occasion. I’m bringing back some control. And it feels fucking great. I’m the exact opposite of me these days and it’s not a bad thing at all. Though I do miss the mess. I am seduced by being reclusive. Reading, writing, creating. Exercise. Sleeping right. I’m going to be better for you and for me and you’ll fall in love. You’ll have to
Thoughts on vanity life is a compromise, love a sacrifice. Lead me not into temptation and deliver me from evil. Isn’t it so foolish to be as concerned with self-improvement as I am? Just to get her back.
Marlboro lights you could save my life with your breath. I could’ve saved your life with just one breath. As you inhale, and exhale. I would kill to be the cigarette on your lips. Fuck the filter. I wish I were the chemicals. We had chemistry and it should fuck the filter of the rational mind. The smoke that leaves after you exhale. I can only wish for you to blow me…. out like that. I wish I were your addiction to tobacco. I would kill to be the cigarette on your lips. The smoke that you suck in and blow out. I would kill to be the ashes at the end or the lipstick marks on the front. But nothing is more finite than the smoking of the cigarette. And I am that: that idea that everything ends once you throw me to the ground and give a twist of your foot. A twist of fate brought me to you, but I was just one white stick in your pack of 24. I was just another cigarette that you have smoked and you have a half of a pack left. To set on fire with a thumb flick of your lighter. Nothing is forever and I’m just another name on your list of things not good enough for you. I wish I was your addiction to tobacco because that’s the only thing that you actually have to try to stop but just can’t. The only thing that isn’t cold turkey. Because you have found the switch on your body with my name on it and turned it off. I don’t really know if I ever really turned you on. And oh I would kill to be your relapse. Because that’s the only thing inevitable after cold turkey. I would kill to be the cigarette on your lips. Just to do it one more time. I’d let you breathe me in and blow me out in the two halves of a second that make up one breath.
In shape for you I want to see you tonight and it’s only because I look the best I’ve looked in years and it’s totally just to spite your eyes and how you live your life. I miss our mornings, I miss our days and I miss our nights. I miss your fucking life and now I look better and feel better than I have in years and it’s only to make you drool. I hope I see the saliva on your lips tonight to spite your empty heart. Razorblade stares. Who cares?
Wishes of love you want this so bad, the man that I’ve become but your heart is still black from the damage that every someone else has done. But that someone else isn’t me. Your problems with intimacy. So, do your best impression of someone that matters. Get all dressed up. “Oh I’m so flattered…you gussied up just for me?”
Marlboro lights (part two) little white cylinders filled with your black death. Tiny little funerals in every five-dollar pack. I’d kill to be that cigarette on your lips. Oh I’d kill for you. For you to be addicted to me, like you’re addicted to nicotine. You let smoke fill your lungs and never let me fill your heart. As they expand and contract, it’s the only thing I can do from stopping the start of killing to be the cigarette on your lips. I need you to inhale and exhale. The second that makes up one breath. Inhale and exhale. I need you to breathe for me again. And again and again and again. Suck me in and blow me out. I’d kill for you. For you to be addicted to me like you’re addicted to nicotine.
More thoughts on you my stomach fills with a butterflied mess as your eyes pull me in again and again. And how I could’ve steered you away from crazy. But “the way you live and the way you love me only mean one thing; nothing.” the only thing we all need to forget is how to remember.
Still Carly-fied wherever I am is where you should be. And I’m going to die alone because it’s without you. I’ve become just another notch on your list. You’ve made me into what you know best; a statistic written in graphite. Punch me into your calculator instead of punching me in the face with your lack of concern. I need a sign to let me know that you might be thinking of me. I need a sign if only to feed the big ego that is me. I need a sign to let me know that you’re missing me. I need a sign, just do it by fucking kissing me. I don’t like being anywhere if it’s not for you. You said that I wasn’t good enough for you and maybe that’s the truth. I’m not good enough for you but in all the wrongness of ways. I was so better for you than you will ever know in all the right ways. I wish you could understand, and maybe someday you will and realize your mistake. I picture you telling your girlfriends that you feel like you might’ve been wrong. Bla bla bla. I had to go from all over you to just plain over you in 3.3 seconds. I can’t just shutdown like you can. My veins don’t bleed blue.
All the real girls the movies I see, making me hate the weak. Showing me that what I’m longing for is what makes me the most sick. I need to be deprived. I hate forgive and forget. They keep it in and with silence. The role they play in silence. The soul that we hate revitalized. And we show. We live the mess. They begin living lies. When mistakes are the only way we know we love but the mistakes are always the unforgivable. Discipline. We all need discipline and maybe it’s ego talking. I want them to be the mess. It’s what you learn after the mistake and what role you play. Your disease has already entered my bloodstream and it only feels good before it hurts and it can only hurt after it has felt so good. Chew on that. Learning how to miss you. They live in hurt but don’t let us see it…whereas we live the hurt and hide nothing. We live the mess. We become jokes of ourselves. Fuck them. Fuck them all. If you’re going to smoke, I wish you’d save the cigarette for after sex. Apologizing with words is never enough, but it’s the best that you’ll ever get.
Silent you can hear me speak but you will never know what any of my words mean. Like white subtitles fighting to contrast against their own draping across a white backdrop. Your eyes, like razor blades, pull me in and slice into my veins. I breathe you in; my lungs swell as your air poisons my lungs.
Romance the amalgamation of brake lights paints the wet street a blood red hue. Setting the stage for the romance blossoming between me and you.
Reality of finality I’ll never feel the weight of you next to me in my bed again. I’ll never wake up to the sound of you breathing. The heaviness of your breath. Your weight shifting my fate, next to me in my bed. Wow, I still miss you. How weird. Flowers on the small of your back. Birthmark on your neck. Songs I’ve never heard reminding me of you. Every time she looks at me it’s as if it’s for the first time. Butterflies. Wish I had the strength to fight for you. But I’m sticking to the easy. The subtle ease of my misery slipping in again.