me and june 21
my wrists – they are unbearable – and all these tattoos are from some december long ago. my hope is fading like the photos of you hanging from all the corners of this cage and remember we used to be happy and i smiled more than twice a day and it was all genuine strums on a guitar – those soft vocals that made no ripples in the pond beside the cemetery near the woods where we made the moon melt with envy while we fucked in the glow of the candles that were stumpy crying and the way we held each other afterward singing poems and declarations and evaporating disguises because we were nothing but real – and now that the funeral and all the bullshit is behind us we can concentrate on healing these hurts even with my head hanging out the window there is swift clean up and paste back the parts that looked pretty and nevermind those that cannot be salvaged – just fucking forget those areas and be happy we got what we did and that the moon refused to give up on us, even while we mocked her because we were foolish. but she was and still is very sweet and understanding and will always be there for me – will let me cuddle up next to her while i cry and she’ll even wipe my tears away and turn them into cocaine dust and we’ll drink together like old friends reuniting for the first time in years to share our memories. i could possibly be the last example of heartbroken before i cloud my mind and tear these wrists wide open and share it with you and you. i wish you could hold me too and make me feel like a person once again. i’m way too comfortable being sad now and too fucking unbelievable for this earth that will eventually stop spinning and the brakes are incredible and yes, i am still so sad and i love so much this beauty before me and maybe, just maybe, when i wake up screaming from the next series of nightmares clutching my pillow and gallons of sweat pouring from my eyeballs are spinning and the owl has left the branch by the window where i laid there, listening to the thunder – nude and scared – and maybe one day there will be that love of life that feels so real and isn’t artificial thanks to the medications that i am eating from the party bowl and can it save me from self-loathing – – – – – – sweet christ is the second best illusion/cunt magic trick next to happiness and i just cannot stop this single thought that cums black ink orgasm on the bathroom floor and my ears are pressed to the sink – to the tile counter – next to piles of freshly shaven black facial hair covering my pills shaped like ovals and stop signs – and they are grand beautiful damage and damage while i am carrying armfuls of ideas and answers to the table as my contribution to some sick feast that anorexia body-shamed boy refuses to eat and instead just licks the enamel from his own teeth while he vomits vicodin and tequila shots for the entire bloody hour conversing with friends and strangers and dogs and other creatures. and yes, this my dear friend is when i feel most alone and now i’ve done it again – spelled out my sorrow in this blog and in countless other journals and bathroom stalls running a fucking fever for twenty years like you wouldn’t believe and sometimes i just try and laugh it off while i burn up in this heavy sweater that you sewed back together for me. my love. caretaker. you who holds me back from myself the angels and the thirsty dark gremlins that live in my skull. favor times of joy to start attending these parties. cause disruption and leave a mark on the way out. the guests are all greedy anti-heroes covered in the blisters of cigarette burns track marks and shitty nazi tattoos done in a sweaty garage and live in the desert caves back in 1992 and no respectable timeline would be complete without a nod to the horror that lived down the road. still remembering the lunches and drinks and dirty showers and wake up calls – i think now is a perfect time to just fucking lose it and blow slobber bubbles all over every doctor’s ideas that i see. no more nonsense going back to the day when the only poems were dark rhyme retreats and trying to be brilliant so young and no ego and i cannot escape this. ever. these memories of the asylums and all the awful days in between and now i’m scrambling to find my prescriptions in case this is it and so i cannot hurt myself anymore. maybe a rowboat. maybe the longest shit to ever find it’s way to a page and i am tired of whining. i’m not whining, i promise. poor fucking miserable me. i addressed my suicide notes to the first person to care and who knew we could have a wonderful singalong beside a giant fire when i finally got there and left my tent for some company.
dreams aren’t coming true but they are certainly a sight – and a slight tease. they make my cock hard and explode while i destroy myself beneath the blankets and i would moan if it weren’t for the dry mouth and my own silly embarrassment.
alltheavenueslookugly 
No need for embarrassment.
It’s just stuff you need to say . . . somehow.
Take care. ♡
i am still trying to overcome the embarrassment aspect that comes when you reveal so much. i have a couple of entries coming up that will be the hardest to write as they will deal with the medications and sex life. but, in keeping with my honesty trend, it’s stuff that needs to be said.
take care of yourself as well. 🙂
Human nature no? Awesome stream of consciousness here, and I relate to so much of it!
one of my purposes is to try and write how it sounds in my head. i think by adopting this approach on occasion, one can better understand how messed up it must be when these are your thoughts that go a hundred miles per hour.
thanks a lot for reading man. i always appreciate your comments.
I must say…this has some poetry to it. Graphic and tender and joyful and despairing; an all-encompassing summary of the world and the life we live in it. Would you be surprised if I said this was coherent, and makes complete sense?
i wouldn’t be surprised at all. i think those of us who suffer together speak a very common language. i will take this all as a compliment. 🙂