After Life

Lifestream Advent Children

Hello, love: the possessor of my soul.
I collect these tears in Mason jars
In hopes of filling the empty basin that is my life,
So one day I may pour them in and create an ocean vast,
Like the one that swept you away from me.
Score have I pined—or at least that is how long it feels—
While you leave me stranded on this island,
Sailing your seven seas, living the fullest life,
Taking the capricious sea as your only lover;

But I shall tell you the truth of the afterlife,
For it is not as they say—temples of worship and realms of fire.
Our consciousness resides in our brains and our brains in our bodies,
Ephemeral, to return to ash,
So why should our souls take our identities with them?
No. Our souls, in fragments held by those we meet, love, and laugh with,
Become one; when we perish they form a collective.
So when we die, you and I, we will be together again,
And because of that, despite the constant tears, I can rest easy.

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Nature of the Soul

Soul

It is the great lie of our existence: that we possess a soul,
When the truth is that the soul possesses us.
By its very nature it cannot be contained, cannot be denied its nature;
And like the imprint of a brand our souls expand beyond ourselves,
Imprinting a piece of us onto others: those we meet, those we touch—
Friends, enemies, lovers, strangers.
We cannot remove our souls from others and cannot remove theirs from us.

In this ephemeral form of existence we can never be alone,
And despite emotion or thought we always matter,
We always impress, we always affect;
So you may go where you will—to another time or universe,
But I have touched you and I have loved you,
So you will be no more rid of me than I will you,
And this is the only truth of existence that matters.

The Coward’s Mistress

Water Teardrop Droplet Drop Aqua

Resigned to her fate, struggle futile: the coward’s mistress.
Forlorn she looks upon the crest of his infidelity,
Invisible to the naked eye, she sees with her third,
Though she is wont to deny it—shield to protect her sanity;

But no esteem to speak of:
It has been whored out to the undeserving,
Dragons’ claws that twine unto abolishment.
In the aftermath, no wake or funeral to concede mourning.

In this vessel of corporeal security and emotional peril
Eyes linger upon the waters, a sea of grief,
Stretching as far as the eye can see, and she knows
There is no harbor to offer escape.

She adds her own tear to the sea.

Thoughts and Wonderings of a Lonely Fuck

staring-at-the-ceiling

“Sometimes I think I just want to be miserable.”

That was the thought that crossed my mind when I finished,
And I just lie there in the bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling
Remembering that this is not where I want to be,
And despite my despair-induced decision to be here,
It’s a poor substitute for my desired destination.

Not only has this become my own routine, personal hell,
But when I look to my side and see that faceless smile—
Unidentifiable outside this cocoon of languish and self-afflicted torment I’ve spun—
I recall the peril I’m putting another person’s happiness in,
And then I just realize I’m a shitty person doing even shittier things.

It’s in these moments that I wonder if my choice was the catalyst or the result:
Did I let you slip away because I believed I didn’t deserve you?
Or have I become said shitty person because I let you slip away?
It’s the great mystery of my life, one I’m sure I’ll never solve;
And anyway, you seem to be getting along much better without me.

. . .

Yeah, I think I just want to be miserable.

To Raava, My Life

Korra Raava

Hello, Raava, center of my soul.
I know we spent only a moment apart,
But every second that our spirits do not touch
Is an eternity of sorrow I cannot bear,
Like everything that is good in me
Has been sucked into darkness, vanished from existence,
And I must trudge through this world without you:
Broken, powerless,
A vestige of my true self.

This is what my nature has become—
Nay, what it was always meant to be,
For I was nothing without your light,
And in its absence I am lesser still;
But in your company I find more than words can define.
You are everything that makes me worth anything,
The source of my strength,
And the catalyst of my courage.
Together we are better than anything in this world.

So please, dear Raava, do not let them take you from me
And pull our souls apart,
Because alone I am too weak to hold onto you;
But if your ethereal spirit touches mine,
Then when you are depleted and impuissant
I will be your ten thousand strong,
To shield you from the despair of the world,
To carry you to safety,
And bring you back home.

Pointing Fingers

You tried to preserve me
like some weird human Tupperware
(which is the dumbest comparison I’ve ever drawn)
and in so doing you never touched me,
never explored me,
just left me on a pedestal as a mythologized archetype;
so I experienced corruption on my own,
free of your direct influence, absent of your presence.
It should go without saying,
but I am not yours for safekeeping
to pull out of a drawer when and if you see fit
and to remain on standby until such time when you have no other option;
but just in case you thought I was some unadulterated ideal,
let me remind you that everyone has a breaking point,
and my resolve has long since flatlined,
slaughtered by desperation and the basest desire for acceptance,
even if it’s hollow and meaningless.
Lest you forget,
I am only human, not some god or angel
who can do no wrong and survive the fires of this world,
or if I were, someone killed him,
and we may as well start with pointing the finger at you.

Same ol’, Same ol’

microphone-on-stage-empty-stage-microphone-stand-up-19ca4cac3d6c3084

I want to write something happy for once,
anything uplifting, motivational, cathartic,
but my creativity has been stonewalled by your absence.
So habitual is my turning around to tell you something—
a joke, an anecdote about my day, or just another compliment—
that it catches me off guard every time
when I turn around and you are not there.
My phone is so silent these days,
I sometimes check to make sure the sound is on
(it always is, of course),
and I am reminded of this despondent reality I now populate.
It’s just so tiring obsessing over the same thoughts every day,
replaying memories in my head like a video on loop
and poring over each detail, as if somehow
ruminating on it long enough will allow me to change the past,
so that I say something different
to make you stay with me.
Even worse, I cannot write a single word about anything else,
and if I had an audience they would be booing me
because I have devolved into a one-trick pony;
but this life really just sucks, and
the worst part is that a part of me hopes you feel the same way.

Sixteen Lines of Self-Pity

Empty feeling

People make time for what they care about most,
And no one is making time for me.
I shut off my phone out of spite
In the hopes that you will check in
And maybe worry when I don’t respond.
It would be my little revenge against you for this desolation—
This isolation—
You have subjected me to;
That’s the kind of asshole I am,
Because I no longer want to be nice.
That is the key, is it not, to feel no pain?
You don’t let yourself care, strip away the compassion;
It’s kind of like becoming a zombie,
Because you are no longer alive
But you also don’t have to worry about feeling anything,
And at just this moment, that sounds pretty good to me.

Stepping Stone

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I love this arrangement you have manipulated me into,
Because everyone needs a stone to step on,
A foothold when they’re about to fall,
And I cannot thank you enough for making me yours.
The weight of your foot upon my skull
Is something I certainly yearn for and do not resent;
Being used for your convenience—
And being ignored and discarded when it’s not convenient—
Is the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.
What a marvel that you ascertained my ambitions
Without me uttering a single word to you!
The truth is that you are a user,
Wielding the armaments you possess to strike,
Felling those who would not fit into your hierarchy,
And trampling upon their remains.
You had no right to ever touch me—
To even lay a finger on me—
But you sunk your entire body into mine
Without word or even a trivial glance
And only the shallowest apology as you continued,
As though I were inanimate.
Blame the drink, blame the cheater,
Whatever you need to do so you feel better,
If you even remember inflicting the wounds at all;
But by whatever god holds dominion over our lives,
Do not speak to me again, do not take a step
Believing I will be there for you to trod upon,
Because you will receive only silence
And find yourself plummeting to the bottom of a hole,
Where I hope in darkness you will see what you are,
And what you have wrought upon me,
And never be able to climb out.

Friendless

Drowning ocean

I wish I could wake up beside you every morning
So that I could look upon your face,
Natural and captivating;
I want to see the real you,
Without artificial machination
Or concealment.
I envy forever the man with such privilege
And scream into pillows because you have sold yourself short,
Sold your love to the first bidder who promised you company,
Sacrificing happiness, security, and trust.
I cannot criticize you, because I possess the same fear:
That no one will come to my rescue,
And my lungs will fill with the waters of hopelessness.
You saved me once, started to pull me ashore,
But as sure as your resolve to commit to self-care
The sands ebbed, eroding from these terrifying currents,
And swept me back into despair.
I can only now gaze at you from beyond the coast,
Unable to reach you because no matter how hard I swim
The currents push me back out to drift again;
And I am convinced this brine that fills my mouth as I sink
Is composed of the tears you cry over the life you settled for,
Oblivious that your sorrow drowns me further
Until the crushing black takes me,
Leaving me helpless,
Alone,
Friendless.