It calls to me.
To every fiber of my being.
Like my father.
And my father’s father.
Brought to my knees by one sip, one hit.
One is too much. One is never enough.
I’ve seen the consequences.
I’ve felt the consequences.
I hate it. I love it.
It drowns me. It brings me to life.
It’s in my blood. It’s who I am.
No. Sip. Yes. Hit.
Eyelids heavy. Cells on fire.
It will come for me eventually.
The death of me, I’m sure.
A fight for another day.
I know full well
that you are the best thing that ever happened to me.
I can’t give you my heart.
Because all those I’ve given pieces of it to
family, lovers, friends
have all cut it out.
And thrown it away.
So if I give you the last bit of my mangled, scarred soul
just to watch you stomp on it
I’m scared of what I’ll become.
In that pain, in that emptiness.
How am I ever
supposed to trust this fickle
and misguided heart?
I think it’s one of the most terrible things to feel in life.
turn into blinding hate.
Your words have made their way to my ears.
The alcohol-soaked rants you spew late at night when your inhibitions are gone.
Such feeble attempts to cover the pain you can’t deal with.
Taking the form of shallow insults that reflect
the empty, terrible excuse of a “man” whose mouth they fell out of.
And when these words hit my ear
and make their way to my heart,
I feel such shame and embarrassment.
Not because you have the power to actually affect me,
but in knowing that I wasted years of my fleeting life
on someone so fucking pathetic.
Far too loquacious
to ever be able to
write a good haiku.
The conflict between light and dark rages on
under my skin, in my bones.
Because I try to crawl towards the light
only to be yanked back by the dark.
Because it owns me.
Because I am his.
Forever plagued by the questions
Like what is the purpose of it all?
Because lately I’ve been
and I want so much more than this.
And does love exist? And if so can it last?
Because my heart has been scarred and shrunk in search of it.
And the only place it seems to exist
is in the fiction on pages of books and screens of theaters
that we create because we can’t find it in our own mundane lives.
These questions keep me trapped in my head.
A prisoner of war to my own thoughts and feelings,
of my light and dark.
Forever a prisoner of war
as the conflict rages on.