Of those two dozen men,
Who took me with the same
Strangely calculated touch,
Insulting me with their lust.

Of those few women,
Wrapped in the same plated lace
To compensate for the form within
Like a second skin.

Of that collection of men,
Their unreciprocated pleasure
Was the cost of their desire,
Which reassured my worth.

Always the pleasure
Peels off with the skin.
Always the end of it
Relieves the pain.

Only ask for death,
Which will always be repaid
Please destroy my lust,
Disillusioned by the touch.

Do you know the cost of pleasure?
I've tasted it
In concentrate
But I didn't know
That I'd never be the same.
That feeling of imbalance
Eternally in flux--
Forever pushing for it--
Then falling through it--
Going to those places
I could never go
But still--
I can't speak of it--
The words burn
And I don't know
The facts are darkened
By the will to survive
Because otherwise there would be Nothing
But to condemn Paradise.

I thought for sure our love had died
I watched it waste away,
Rattling around my head
Before the long decay.

I saw the absence in the eyes
I touched the empty skin,
The cold was of a special stock
Just like the weight of sin.

I burned a stigma on its breast
And poisoned it with despair.
The taboo it bore bled it dry.
The flesh would not repair.

It wasn't till I saw it there
As ragged empty bones,
And felt the hallow space between
I knew it was my own.

I've forgotten my foot
Went walking
Without me
But I haven't forgiven it.

My fingers cramp easily enough
when there’s nothing
weighing them down.
My mind is numb at the first
black phantom offering
of hope;
always running from what could be,
preferring that nonthreatening illusion
while time goes by
so subtly,
just wilting away
today.
Still the broken won't heal
entirely;
I've learned it,
regretted it,
repeated it
too many times.
Though, it wasn't quite a broken bone,
but I wouldn't say it wasn't anything,
just a link
in the chain
that I wear as decoration
no longer bothered by the discomfort
of its weight
worn with pride
for its humiliation.
So goes my day
in the vacuum of time,
condemning everything to the irrelevant.

He never lived so softly when alive,
nor after in death did he care to die,
just sleeping
with hands clasped upon the chest,
dreaming of the pain which
so condemned his life;
of soft humiliations fine
which he drank in multitude,
morning, night and noon,
and found pleasure in such numb abuse;
since he didn’t know what it was to be alive
with no internal thoughts to bear,
just creeping slowly through the years,
with the subtle growth of doubt and shame,
like a garden growing in the brain,
finely preserved in his suit and tie;
he thought it was preordained to die
before one had lived at all.
He called life another death
and so he put a gun to his head
wondering then what he would really do
and then he went right along as
he had always done.
The loss of life is so well refined
like all good things,
it frees the soul and destroys the mind.

I have a guilt complex
like a catholic boy,
who can’t stop *******,
but with a bloated sense of entitlement,
always saying I didn’t get enough of anything
and a tendency to exaggerate for my own sake
since I’m a victim of abuse,
I’m allowed to abuse
and I tend to self isolate
as if I was surrounded by dead bodies
and I’ve lived out my life
for one great purpose,
for improvement and progress,
at least that’s what I tell myself
since I’m a slave to self indulgence
but the higher you reach,
the lower you are
and the farther you fall
and, of course, I’m arrogant enough
to feel the need to self destruct.