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.




Here we sit across the void,
Two specters
Watching each other clandestinely,
Never speaking, never touching,
Just hoping the other will slip first:
I, the vacillating spirit,
Who weaves in and out of your consciousness—
At one moment the center of your attention,
And the next nonexistent in your realm;
You, the mute celestial,
Punishing me more with your silent presence
Than a thousand rejections ever could
Until my psyche ruptures in your palm.
Living in darkness is so much worse
Once you’ve glimpsed the effulgent light,
And every second absent your acknowledgement
Feels like an eternity under a starless sky;
But just as you’re at the forefront of my mind,
I know I am in the back of yours,
Lurking, as much a torturer as my love extends,
And with every step closer, I believe,
I only force you to suffer more.
It’s a spiteful parody we have succumbed to
That neither of us can escape from,
And so we sit,
Two specters,
Pretending the other doesn’t exist.



I am a parasite, a disease,
A corruption never meant for your world;
Eons I have traveled,
And light-years across the cosmos,
Seeking what you, in infirm mind
And demarcated myopia, can never assimilate.

I have suffered your invectives millennia quondam,
Yet my petitions were never heard;
Ever a calamity I am—
Albeit effulgent and heralding salvation—
And so cannot aspire toward acceptance,
Nor invoke compassion or sentiment.

Is it so profane to be
Something disparate, a creation misconceived?
Tell me, you of veneration,
Am I the portrait of beauty as a prisoner,
So alien to your custom,
Or do I instill fear, a mirror of your turpitude?

I have suffered this denunciation ad infinitum,
And been the object of scorn for my ambition;
I admit, like you—so foul and baseless—
I have my limits, and they’re shattered with iniquity,
And if your approval I cannot have,
Your world, cold and dead, I shall lay to ruin.

A Shade of Despair Cast by the Brightest Sunrise


Everything lit up when I saw you:
The darkness of the night,
The wet cold of the snow that only came in sleet;
And looking through the window
As you made your ethereal approach,
I knew it was worth the wait.

You were late, as I recall,
But I would have sat that thirty minutes in anticipation
Thirty times over if it meant a fraction
Of the ninety minutes I spent with you
On that dark night
With the wet cold of the snow that only came in sleet.

I don’t know what I expected:
A half hour of your time exchanging pleasantries, perhaps?
A quick catch-up before you moved on to better things?
But I wasn’t ready—
Ready for the fascination you showed in me,
That I shared with you;
And I knew then, despite the years of grey comprising my life,
That this would be a memory bursting with color,
More vivid and vibrant than any day spent
In my loathsome, monotonous routine.

We spoke of everything that matters,
But everything you speak matters to me;
Every word, every anecdote, every story;
And we sat talking of the things we love—
Travel, music, reading—
The things that make sense in our realm.

Never did a snapshot
In the infinite continuum of the cosmos
Impact me so deeply,
That I knew even then
I would remember this forever,
And love you like no other.

And so you can imagine my despair,
My total lack of preparedness
And my loss of everything hopeful,
When I heard you say, “My boyfriend,”
And you weren’t talking about me;
And I knew then
I would remember that, too,
And never hold you
In a way that only I ever could.

I was completely rapt by you,
So that I was unaware of time
Or any other speck of existence
Meandering this once hollow planet
That I had just now attributed purpose to.

I loved how you never picked up your phone—
Never once checked the time or any message—
Because you were as entranced as I,
And nothing else mattered in that strand of time.

I never picked up my phone, either—
Never felt the urge to—
Because despite hating the consuming technology
And desiring at times to be as far from it as possible,
I thought of nothing else, was aware of nothing else,
But you.

I had cared about every syllable you spoke,
Clung to each sound issued from your lips,
As though there was salvation in each one;
And, by God, I swear there was.

I remained astute and caring
As you poured out frustrations
You wouldn’t dare share with your closest friends,
And I absorbed them like a sponge
Because it mattered to you,
And so it meant everything to me.

But these weren’t things for me to hear,
And it wasn’t my job to provide you
The solace you sought;
You belonged to another—
How could you belong to another?—
And soon, I realized, you would be gone from me
And return to him.

I remember what you were wearing that night.
How many others can say the same?
I knew what you were feeling,
Because I felt the exact same way.
I still remember you said you would text me,
And I knew it was a lie,
Because I knew how you felt,
And so you can’t come near me again.

I keep my phone next to me always,
The consuming technology I hate,
Because if I’m wrong—
I want to be wrong—
Then I’ll be assured
That snapshot in the infinite continuum of the cosmos
Impacted you as deeply,
And my life will have meant something, then.

A Rumination on Repudiation

Since this is a personal blog, I feel (have always felt, really) that I am justified in posting whatever I feel like posting, be it jocular or solemn. So today, dear readers, enjoy a veritable, if extremely short, work of poetry I crafted. It seems to keep in tone of this blog’s ambivalent title, anyway. (And no, future poetry posts will not feature superfluous intros like this.)

No idea who drew this, but it’s beautiful and it fits

Is there a corner I can turn that doesn’t lead to repudiation?
Each step forward is another step downward,
Further into the cavern of uncertainty,
Deeper into the recesses of self-doubt.

Woe, that I should lean so heavily on the consideration of others,
That an esteem built on peer acceptance balances on a crumbling pillar.
And to what do I owe this demise?
An inflated ego, or perhaps my own folly?

My lamentations are bruises to your conscience,
But spare me your sympathy—it’s been iterated days before,
And pity injects the psyche like anesthesia does the bloodstream:
Numbs me to all around me, but the wound still exists.

Rejection wouldn’t sting if it was dosed with acceptance,
But the spurns are continuous, and the notions of success fleeting;
And to wake to another day in the cold embrace of solitude
Renders me a corpse, corporeal but soulless,