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.

Advertisements

Stepping Stone

de0285bdfc8bb8a71d97688458f02070--portrait-photography-men-emotional-photography

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.

From the High Rise Where I Will Commit Suicide

nyc-02

Everything looks so meager down below,
As miniscule as the stars overhead,
Each dot an entire person,
An entire world upon which everything else revolves,
Unmoving by other worlds amassing their own gravitational pulls,
Each one self-contained, suffering its own entropy.
Yes, these people are dying stars,
Once so bright, but fading out quickly,
Sliding toward oblivion, taking entire worlds with them.
It evokes the age-old question, “Why do we bother?”
I thought the city would provide comfort,
Some transient camaraderie or psychological affluence,
But just like the crimson damsel who exiled me here,
This parochial prison only entreats solitude
And a growing reclusion atop my perch,
Where I examine countless people—
Stars—
Worlds—
And admit with no alacrity or pleasure
That mine is a barren solar system,
No worlds or lives revolving around whatever light I exude,
Deriving no subsidy from my warmth,
Unfazed by the lure of my gravitational pull.
So like that rare star, I serve only to observe from a distance,
Perhaps that someone may achieve data from my death—
Inescapably brighter and more bombastic than my life.
If supernova is truly all I have to look forward to,
Allow me to hasten its arrival, so that someone may learn from its occurrence
Without learning anything of the star itself.

Embattled

34913337_M

Embattled:
This is the landscape of my soul,
Reaped of the famine that would set in motion the apocalypse.
The stars have waged war with the sky,
And where you see salvation and safeguard—
Perspective derived from the dilution of your spirituality—
I see the beginning of the end,
Because I am fallen, a demon,
And in this state my soul is trapped in
There is no perception of hope or rescue.
We are all doomed,
Because you and I were the link to life,
And with our chain severed,
This earth is condemned to perish;
And we, its saviors, our responsible for its destruction.
So the world can behold our savagery
As the slaughterers of seven billion,
And our hatred—
Bred from the love we possessed and tarnished—
Has rendered us Thanatos
Immortal,
To exist forever in this penitent Tartarus.

Social Confessional

gallows_by_hornedquad-d5nby0v

I may have sinned, but I won’t ask your forgiveness.
The truth is I’ve only tried to emulate you,
Acting without scruples in your manner,
But I still stand in awe of you:
How you blaze a trail of ruin,
Leaving flowers to wither and vegetation to rot.
You don’t possess a conscience;
Perhaps that’s why I feel so good
When I slander your name across the universe.
Never before have I sought vengeance,
But I confess now that every wound I inflict—
Stealing what you hold most dear—
Brings a sickening satisfaction to my mind,
And when those thoughts lull me to sleep
They are the best sleeps I ever know.

Wilted

dead_flower_by_ninsight-d301wab

You are no flower—
Not one worth putting in a vase, anyway.
You’ve wilted away in what should be your prime,
Tearing your petals off,
Depriving yourself of nourishment,
And living in perpetual shadow.
It’s no wonder you can’t be alone with your thoughts
Without bending your mind until it snaps;
But if you can’t live with yourself,
No one else will be able to live with you, either.

Frankly, My Dear

Burned_out_candle

I’ve tried so hard to hate you,
But every time I muster a mote of loathing
Or contrive the basest slander against your character,
My tongue ties into knots or I stumble;
And I know that for all my wishing,
I could never bring myself to defame you,
Though it would be so much easier if I could.
You would have me fixate on the profane
To prove you’re worthless
(Maybe you think it would be easier that way),
But my eyes have stripped away the horrors
Your acts of depression, revenge, or apathy have wrought.
That’s not who you are—
I refuse to believe that—
No matter what they tell you;
They’re dead wrong, but they wouldn’t know,
Because those who don’t look beyond flesh
Have no compassion for others.
You’re the kind of person I would die for,
But to be honest I’d much rather live for you,
Stand by your side to help you up when you misstep,
And you could do the same for me.
But since I sit here, deprived of your glory,
I wring my heart like a wet cloth
To squeeze a drip of hatred,
And always come up short.
It’s just that your sins are trivial in light of your grace,
And I couldn’t care less how high they stack;
They won’t matter when we’re dead, anyway.

These Obliterated Affairs

City ruins

I’ve done it again:
Set everything around me to ruin.
With the gentlest of touches
I have collapsed empires,
Toppled monuments,
And razed the capitals
That govern my id;
I have ruptured the dams
That hold this deluge at bay
So these tears can flow unhindered,
Wash away the rubble from these obliterated affairs
And, perhaps one day, begin this earth anew . . .
At least that’s what I tell myself
So I may retain the slightest agency,
When the truth is I’m not responsible for any of it;
This world of ruin in which I dwell,
Is something that happened to me,
Not because of me,
So how dare you tell me to stay on my feet,
To keep fighting and never surrender,
When there’s grass so much greener elsewhere
And I have wings to fly away on?

The Dread of Ye

Dirty mirror

I hate this feeling:
The dread—
This fucking dread—
Knowing the anguish to come
Now that this void I tried so hard to fill—
That was filled with your goddamn voice—
Is a void once more.
The ennui is so real,
And I abhor it so much,
I find myself raking at my skin
Just for a moment’s reprieve.
I’ve become a masochist,
Delighting in my own torture
As I stand in a room face-to-face
With the one face I never wanted to see again;
But my faith in myself is shaken—
Motherfucker, you moved me when no one else could—
And now I treat this void as a vat:
I pour anything and everything I can into it,
Even knowing most of it is poison,
And with each drop I become less myself
And more what I always saw in that filthy mirror.
I know they see it, too:
All those eyes on the street.
Their whispers somehow reach my ears,
As loud as jet engines that block out all else,
So I’m forced to stand trial,
Listening to all their ridicule;
And I, only ever asking how I fell this far,
While recognizing the one strand of hope in my life—
Yes, I’m talking about your goddamn voice again—
Is now broken, never to be repaired.