How it feels to be told you’re not to be trusted


Two weeks.

A fortnight.
14 revolutions of Terra swinging gravely about Sol.

Two weeks since we decided the make-up sex was not worth the fights.

In that time I:

-explored stretched mentality in a nestled cabin amongst brethren
-wielded bong and bottle valiantly against sobriety night after excruciatingly long night
-and, during one such battle, recruited a female compatriot to stave off thought; banishing it with intimate touch.

Two weeks later.
I am in your room,
feeling the dead claw at their graves in my chest.

I tell you I slept with her.

Except I don’t just tell.

I twist my words with labile veracity,
concluding that because you hurt me,
because you excommunicated me,
because I could no longer worship at your altar,
but to pay homage between someone else’s thighs.
YOU did this, I twist.

You have words, but all they say is hurt.
I have words, but all they are is ash in too many mouths.

I have kissed so many mouths and by God,
no one kisses me like you do.

We will kiss again, much later, but I will always taste the ash.

Two weeks you say.

You couldn’t go two weeks.

You crumble as I rise to leave.

I do not trust myself to say anymore twists.

You tell me,


“I will never trust you again.”


Dear former lover

Dear former lover,
I dreamt of you last night.
Tall and gangly and spirited and quietly and not so quietly amazing.
I think you and I both know
That I was parasitic.
I took and took
Because I needed so very badly
To be more than the rent half she had left me as
I took and took and left you the second she opened her legs back up to me.
There are few wrongs I feel I cannot make right.
We are one of them.
Last night I dreamt of you.
Of how you would look in my eyes
Turn and Laugh uproariously at a quiet inanity I might mumble
And as your gaze fell back to mine you would slap me, playfully
Your laugh was fuller than a brass band
Your eyes more mischievous than Puck.
It is hard, dear former lover.
To wake up from your smile.
And look into the eyes of the woman I now love.
Dreams meld the past with the present.
This morning, I loved you again.
I wish I could ask
In all humility
That you stray from my dreams forevermore.
That you unvisit my sleep.
Let me wake to the here and now.
I think though
That this is my penance.
To love and forget, love and forget,
Dream to reality, again and anon
It is only fair. It is only appropriate
Dear former lover,
I love you, in the former, in the imaginarium present, and in all, I am sorry. In all, I am sorry.