The Tear

When you cry your beauty stuns me, like you’re letting me see the important parts, the you-ness of you.
I want to wrap you up and exist with you in that space, where nothing matters but that connection. Food coloring dissolving into water, smoke into air, becoming a single new substance.
The tear caught in your eyelashes begs me to wipe it away, but I let it sit for a moment so I can watch it and feel this feeling for just a little bit longer.


Packing this suitcase is becoming a serious problem. What am I gonna to do with all these socks? They don’t fit next to the pain, and the self-defeat already filled the smaller bag in the corner. Fuck it. I’m just bringing a couple pairs – the holy ones. Only staying a couple days anyway, and maybe not even that long. I just need enough time to burn the shit in my life that no longer serves me: a look of longing, a shiver of unspoken words, that feeling of ice in my stomach that makes me wince, and those stupid fucking socks.

This is going to be one hell of a bonfire. Bring some beers if you feel like coming along, nothing but empty seats here in this heart. I’ll grab a radio. We’ll burn some of your shit too if you want.


(yes. it’s the same literary device as the previous post. fuck you for caring.)



I’m surrounded by trash. Piles of papers–God knows their origins and destinations–ash, an empty coffee cup, an unvacuumed floor, general clutter built up over years.

Trash in my thoughts surround the occasional useful ideas. The chorus of a song repeats in the background, and the aggravation it inspires only comes forward when the other garbage recedes. The plans I want to set in motion that I know will never happen, the people involved won’t be interested, little gifts I’d love to make for people that will eventually be discarded.

The burgeoning dumpster of emotions never spoken looms over me like the shadow of a cloud. The cross I bear is made of the rotten wood ripped from a tree, carved with long ago lovers names. Though I know most don’t see each other any longer, the fact that they found one another for a short time is a dull ache in my chest. My name was once carved into a tree, and I’m sure has suffered the same fate.

I light my cigarette and breath deeply the stench of it all, a kiss not stolen. A love unreturned.

I don’t know if this is an end, beginning, or both

I hope it’s a beginning and that the tone of this site and condition of my life are on an upswing as of now, but to be honest that hope is small. It’s a wish cowering in the corner, peeking nervously over its shoulder waiting for a monster to burst through the door.

Let’s begin again from the perspective of reality, mainly because I have nowhere else to place these thoughts and no one I can talk it out with.

–   I’m broke. Well I have nine dollars, but that’ll be gone tonight at the bar when I get my third beer. It’s not like I could stretch it very far anyway, so I may as well have one last night of distraction before… Before what, exactly? Couldn’t tell ya.
–   I’m broken. There were quite a lot of factors that contributed to that, and I’m sure half of them were of my own doing, but fixing it is a fight I’m not sure I have in me right now.


–   I’m alone (*mostly). That has contributed to the broke and broken aspects of my life, and may even–no–it absolutely is the driving force behind both. The last relationship I had ended in 2007. Holy shit. In a couple months it’ll be nine years. Ever wonder what the lack of human touch can do to a person? I can tell you. When no one is around and I’ve got nothing to distract me, I’m spending a large portion of the time holding back tears. This is why I’m broke: I’ve going to the bar nearly every night just looking for someone to talk to. Put aside finding a girl, I just want conversation and some sort of connection. Sometimes this public solitude feels like a type of death; one that whittles away at your soul until you’re left with an empty glass, an empty feeling that truly does physically hurt, and an empty life. No matter what else is going on, this is a feeling that needles you until you’re full of holes. I can’t count the times I’ve driven home from the bar crying with the thought that it’s just over for me.
* There are two people I can talk with, but one lives across the state and is rarely back home, and the other works most days until fairly late. by that time I’ve gotten so sick of being cooped up that I’m at the bar already.


–   A few weeks ago I was talking to someone online and I reread what I’d last written, then sent “Christ, it sounds like I’m fucking depressed.” It was a flippant comment at the time, but now I’m not so sure. The sentence stuck with me and I started looking up symptoms last week. The only one that doesn’t line up are suicidal thoughts, at least not to the extent where I’m planning it or anything. The closest I get is feeling like I just wouldn’t care. The most common idea running through my mind these days is “why fucking bother.” I’m not sure people who can barely muster up the motivation to go microwave a lunch for themselves have the gumption to actually plan and follow through on ending their own lives. That and that little cowering hope are what keep me going.
This is foreign territory for me. I–with the exception of some dire moments–have lived my life as an optimist. It’s this that tells me that if I am dealing with depression, it’s of the situational rather than clinical variety. That’s good news I suppose.

So the goal here is to write it all out and possibly stumble across a solution to some of this rancid crap. Wish me luck.