Cousin, cousin, I have looked in the mirror, passed the translucent water and seen you there. A dumb fish on a cusp, draped in that martyr ego, singing “Woe is me, woe is me.”
For years they have compared us, like two wings attached to same butterfly and pressed under the same glass. I’ve even exchanged grains of sand to run a blade down the middle.
Because if I could reincarnate, I believe I would stay the same, but crush you beneath a heavy, broken sky like Chicken Little. Or push you off wall and never put your pieces back together.
Cousin, cousin, you are so wicked. Poor advice, a cheater’s game, planting seeds in an evil garden. You told me to sell my gold and trade it for fools, just so you can jester in the court.
Back on my feet, you take pride in pushing me down. A shrunken protégé inside your self-worth and a former lamb of potential whose eyes use to light up like a child on Christmas.
Nevertheless, you have a tendency to take that which is beautiful and pull it down into a tar pit. And from the wool you shaved came forth a wolf in hiding, lone and traveling through woods.
Cousin, cousin, all of your envy, down to its shaking ankles, frightened face and ego cradled. I am not the infant once naive and you are simply a pillar of ash I flick into a tray.
A fortieth birthday dressed in black, mail I never wanted to receive, and the false hope that something better could grow. Because at one point, I looked up the stairs and saw you there.
I viewed you as someone I could show the dark side of Venus to and pull away the dandelion mask for a moment and confide. It was one of the few sapphires I held onto deeply.
Cousin, cousin, regardless of this war, know I have stepped away from the ruins and always knew the towers would collapse. Mangled and broken, I can only pray for you.
However, the thing about prayers is sometimes they are sent back as lessons to be learned. And always know blood is indeed thicker than water, but water easier to clean up.
So I am done with you and this soap opera, the bellowing mouth and a Judas figure who plays the part of a Christ in the land of lust and spilled tea. Cousin, I am done with you.
June 21, 2015
Imagine wanting to canon ball into a
swimming pool, but it’s as cold as the Artic
and the fear of freezing takes over.
People, faces, places, crowded rooms,
silent behind a cigarette, I’ve built
my fourth wall and I’m avoiding calls.
Introductions, handshakes, smiles,
assuming the worst always comes first.
And everything is a trap.
Limitations, an imitation, skin on skin,
I’m still not letting them in. Is this purgatory,
or eternal damnation?
Often times I feel like a ghost who goes
on vacation, yet the haunted house still
follows me everywhere I travel.
They ask, “How are you?” And for the
love of God somewhere else, all I can do
is ask the same.
Because there is always a loaded gun
hovering above me, pointing down,
and every word could trip the trigger.
Pencils, pens, razor blades, I’ve picked
my cuticles away and ripped apart
my nails with chattering teeth.
A force moves me like a tsunami
of drum sticks, barrels, the quaking and
qwuaking of mouths.
The undercurrent in my stomach swirls
a nightmarish whirlpool. They seem to
scream, “Stupid, idiot, weirdo!”
But in reality, they either care a little,
or don’t give a fuck. So I tuck myself
inside and prepare to dive.