Vomit: Volume I

Literally, word vomit. Cathartic word vomit.

And in the breaks between our bones,

our rashes, ashes, our rhythm and scars,

I longed to take a mistake and phone

the finite nothingness we both had known.

I wanted, daunted, to be the one

two, three;

the one that haunts for eternity,

we the two who came undone,

but three is the magic number,

hunger made you younger

than me. We talked, conspired,

and through the wired

prejudices in our midst, reminisced

times we could have been, we dreamt

of this mediocrity. This, vast

missingness, this empty space

in my chest now has caved

in to fit a figment of you. Only you,

so far. Too far.

Away from me and this

war. Why did you do this?

How could you do this?

What have I ever done to you?

How could I have been so terrible?

This is on me, this is on me, this is on me.

Shit happens, does it not?

(But the knots go tangle themselves

all the same.)

So many questions and not

enough hatred, I’ve wasted

what feels like a decade already,

and the worst part is:

I can’t even bring my regrets to bed.

So this is what it means to live dead.

No one in your corner, nothing in your grave,

God damn the damnable.

it’s all too much to handle.

I have my faith, cracked and a little

whacked on the side, I still have

it, like a lamp stand by my bedside.

Must remember to turn it on,

must remember that shadows are just that.

Must remember to forgive myself.

Forgiveness isn’t something you take from a shelf

of good intentions and well meaning.

It’s something you fight for with

every beating breath you take.

I’m fighting. Still fighting.

(You haven’t begun to see me break.)

Let me die, to myself and my pride.

All I ever wanted was to do what’s right.