delusions of semi-normalcy

Since ever-so long ago, there has been a place in my dark– my own dark,
a gathering of savages all hidden within my shroud of anger–
where we drink the cheapest of wines and brood upon "what used to be"s,
we do not think of aftermaths, of consequences,
only surrender to the stupor that spilt blood brings
and laugh in our own sick ecstasy, dancing our lament away,
playing melodies that only my cannibalistic charity could ever understand.
And now, thinking about it, my life has had a jazzy irony
that tempts me to run about, attempting to understand...
But I can’t even read the omens properly, let alone your expression.
As you slid my glasses back upon my face, I realized what an opportune moment
had knocked down my door;
I remember, at that very opportune moment
(take this however you wish; I have no use for it),
"I am no dove, I am no muse, I have no use for these words in my head;
I am only a girl with a glass of cheap wine."
Since (then), I have started smoking more.
I discarded the tree branch by branch, laughed at the memories, gloated in my victory,
though now my wish to shed my shame is nigh unbearable.
I have recorded the words in my head and finally understood
a small fraction of my own meaning
to what point? to what purpose? I still find an attractive hollow in my chest
and you call this "progress"?
I have stopped rehearsing conversations with you
that I know will never come,
I have stopped clawing at the sand, expecting it to save me–
I only stare in disgust these days.
But you wouldn’t know how I am these days, would you?
You stopped calling.
I stopped wringing my hands.
You stopped coming around.
I stopped having heart attacks.
Since (here?), I have started pounding my fists upon glass,
I have found a desperation that overwhelms,
but I am desperate for so many things that
it is hard to keep them straight these days;
but you wouldn’t know about these days, would you?
Of late, I have been so desperate TO BREATHE,
to keep my mind inside my head,
to keep my head upon my pretty little neck,
to keep my hands steady,
to keep from fainting,
to keep my eyes from the hurricane,
to keep your memory from my thoughts,
to keep from going mad,
to keep from suicide,
to keep from homicide,
to keep the crude stitches that hold me together from falling apart,
to keep away from the edge of this darkness that threatens to consume,
to keep the words of protest from escaping my mouth,
to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep to keep

...to keep from giving everything away.

I have tried to keep from becoming desperate,
but I know a lost cause when I see one
and I am so ANGRY, but my outsides are too tired to do a damn thing about it.
I loved a man once.
A dismal silence, a turned shoulder without a word,
Since, I have concluded that I honestly wish he had died that day–
it would take away the pain that he’s still out there somewhere,
loving someone else,
thinking of something else who is probably thinking of someone else.
Since, I have screamed a little bit every time I open my eyes.
I have tried to explain– I’ve died to explain–
but you still haven’t seemed to understand.
You smile and nod, you cry and rip your hair,
but I’m still not sure you can bleed;
you stare at me like it’s some sort of joke,
not realizing that there are a thousand things that I am bursting to say,
none of them anything you’d want to hear.
And since, it has been over and over again with the same old words.

"I love you."
"I know, but don’t you have anything else to say?"

Since, I have forgotten that it was in this very spot
that he and I played our game with words.
Words, spilling lazily from his lips to reach me,
and reach me they did;
since, I have become so lonely
that it seems like learning a new language every time I say "hello".
My skin has become synthetic and dull,
brimming with all the things he never knew,
my hands shaking with all the things I never said,
my lips trembling with all the hateful fantasies sliding through the cracks in my mind.
Since, I have marked my skin with sentiments
and I have attempted to forget the number of years
since I followed him down the bare and sterile corridors
of mouthless words and meaningless lessons.
I believe it was only in these last few seconds
that I realized I am now in the very same position he was in
all those years ago–
but I could be wrong, I do forget so easily these days.
But you wouldn’t know about these days, would you?
Since, I have tried to stop thinking completely–
my words have gotten me nowhere.
There are some things that I wish I could remember,
but there is still a mind full of things that I wish I couldn’t–
and despite all of the different kinds of pain I have been able to recall,
I have found that the pain of recollection hurts more than anything else I have known.
Since, I have hoped that forever isn’t as long as it sounds
because even these nineteen years has been quite enough for me.
Your voice has carried me through the widest of oceans,
the thickest of labyrinths,
the most hopeless of battles,
from the dismal beginning to the barren and joyless end;
and I never meant to sound ungrateful,
but I’ve found that all I fucking wanted was just to believe...
I wish you could understand.
Since, I have found that standing alone
is not quite as heartbreaking as it sounds;
it is the heartbreak preceding that catches you every time.
Since, I have found that sitting on the curb
– with my glass of cheap wine and soaking wet sentiments,
as if I were a stranger in this town–
is not quite as bad as I remembered it from all those years ago.
These days, I struggle to find when this "since" began–
but you wouldn’t know about these days, would you?