there is nothing like the way he whispers my name across the room

when i am sound asleep in his bed.

his sheets are a warm embrace,

his lips, sweet poison i can drink for days.

no wonder i could not tell when he was lying or telling me the truth.

i was too drunk on love that i could not see i was addicted to his smell.

like a loyal dog i followed until the end,

and i keep escaping rehabilitation.

experiencing highs and lows at the moment, which is what happens when you tease others with your heart on your sleeve but never fully become a hand me down. it is what happens when your addictions overpower your being and your being has no clue what to be when it’s feeling, or not feeling what that addiction brings. it is what happens when you get lost in your own head, when you worry too much that you drive yourself insane. where your friend on one shoulder tell you that you will do great things, that you are magnificent, and the one on the other shoulder tells you that you are nothing but the same unwanted fragment in a sentence, the dirt under fignernails, nothing but judas kiss.

experiencing highs and lows; intrusiveness.

crazy?

we searched for comfort in the city, found it underneath bed sheets and the busy people of market street striding so gallantly in business wear. found it underneath the cold winter living underneath the bridges where gatherings are like masses, preaching for hunger and divinity. we searched for comfort under uniformed officers and handcuffs nearly caressing our wrists. we found it in the cells, in our heads, in the feelings of mojo, chalk, china white, pot, and Mexican Valium; in the hearts of tourists who professed their love and shattered their freedom and traded it in for a ring on a pretty girl dressed in pink at the pier. we searched for comfort in the asylums, in the riot, the fire tearing down walls, demolishing old buildings, in the smell of burning flesh turned to ash, with piles of stone and shiny glass mounted upon corpses and the bodies of those who we shall never speak of. we found it in flower decorated paths, in every wave hitting a rock, in every young feeble minded teenager skateboarding away from traffic; landing shoulder first, knees scraped, arms bruised flat on the concrete. 

we searched for comfort in the city where the girls wear stockings and buy the boys drinks, where love is traded in for one more time to feel alive.

the acne scars and the crooked smile.

not remembering important dates.

and the track-marks on your arms from another night of dependency.

your naked body.

but 

the rain soothes everything and disguises the things you are ashamed of. 
everything beautiful is destructive.

everything beautiful is destructive.

there are things i wish i could have taken back. many things sputtered from my lips without control or reasoning other than trying to make up excuses for myself. if we both knew any better we would not be having this conversation, we would not go around in circles for the billionth time, and we would have stopped sleeping in a stranger’s bed. the ugly truth of it all is that depression and addiction lead you down roads where you have no other choice, no right turns and no stops. you cannot ever really know on which side of the spectrum you will wake up on, happy or sad, and that leaves us clinging to another, searching for security in the most fucked up way. if we knew any better we would have stopped in time, look at us now.

she was a wreck, the overbearing mess. the cute, petite, brunette with a ruthless attitude;yet, so insecure in a way she would never demonstrate. a dislike for everything she was and was not. a hatred for her body and for all the men that came before him who had taken a piece of her and destroyed it. the howling monsters of the night who did anything to get a piece of her flesh. she had a couple bruises that had never healed, never faded, never quite the same. despite it all she was gentle, and when she kissed him she was loving, passionate, almost as if she could love again; like he was her safety blanket guarding her, and she could not let go of his fragile embrace for fear that everything would shatter. the next moment she became a whirlwind, a swift, rapid, spun out of control mess. she smoked too many cigarettes, drank too much whiskey, and cursed at anything and everything- until she was on the verge of tears. on those nights she asked him to leave, pile his clothes on the hallway outside the apartment complex and demand that he would just let her be alone to drown in her own unhappiness and solitude. “why are you here?”, she questioned, puzzled over the fact that no matter what she did to try and break his heart, to try and keep him away from her, he always stayed. His i love you’s echoed from underneath the crack of the doorway, a familiar tune, and he was the melody, the musical note keeping her from complete self destruction; he was the calm after the storm.