SabbathLiterature

Raised in a family of wolves.

You were always fantasizing about the worst case scenario, And, from fearing that, you created it. You will cry and say that your hands weren't strong enough, That your mouth cannot find the right words, But I'm the one who has to wash your scent from my sheets, Scrub your fingerprints from my skin, And erase that letter from my mind, But I can't cut you out of my heart. This feeling is like the chill left behind, When a door has just been closed, And the Winter still lingers on the doorstep, An opportunity wasted, an orphaned dream. I try to tell myself that we were like continents then, Strong and solid, far-reaching and rugged, But I fo

There are pieces of you all over the floor, Tiny red shards winking in the light, I keep trying them up and put them together, But they keep slipping through my fingers. So I'll do my best to hold the pieces that you give me, Learn not to try to fix them, And love them even in their brokenness.

Once up a time there was a little prince, I found him so far from his home, A tiny world not much bigger than a house, Where rose-bushes grow and he pulls up the weeds, And he would watch the sun set forty-four times, In one day. In that grey soil a unique bulb grew, And sprouted a small green head, She matured inside that nub, And burst forth into flushing life, A delicate woman's face on a stem. He loved her from that very moment, And placed a glass cover over her, To shelter her from the wind, But she scorned him, Saying she did not fear tigers in the night. The next morning he cleaned out his volcanoes, And set his shoes in a neat line

Show me the cuts that he made, In your wooden heart, Like carvings in a tree. When you were lost in him, A forest full of grabbing hands, Tearing at your shirt. You were swallowing your tears then, A river flowing down your throat, To pool heavy in your lungs. He didn't hide those scars, Because he wanted you to know, That he hated himself more than you ever could. Your veins start to turn to stone, Blue blood, red eyes, Pale skin freckled by Winter sun. He took your nakedness from you, Surrounding your body in darkness, Eyes closed, mouth open. You learned not to cry before him, Watering a miniature garden, In the faint pre-dawn light.

Dear friend, I am writing to you today to tell you about someone that I think you should know. Maybe you haven't met him yet and that's because he can be very shy at introducing himself, especially at parties. But I think you must have seen him around by now. He's about five ten and he's always wearing the same Black boots. He has red hair. The first time I met him he didn't introduce himself either, but I could guess at who he was. I was standing elbow-deep in a crowd at a midnight concert, and he was standing on the bar, playing an accordion. I knew at that moment that I was going to know him very well. He was wearing a hat covered in pape

Why I take photos My mother used to say to me, "Every time you take a photo, make sure there's a person in it, so you can remember." At the time I thought it was just one of many sayings that she would repeat to me ad infinitum, repeating over and over like a mantra until they lost all meaning. Years later, as a young man, her words came back to me and I realized how wise they truly were. I lost a very close friend suddenly and after the initial shock and mourning, I discovered that I couldn't find any photos of him. There was literally no record of the time we spent together, the nights that we stayed awake talking, the idealistic veneer of

Something does not stop existing simply because you stop thinking about it. But in spite of this I have worked hard at putting him far from my mind. It was Summer then and his hair was still growing long, I was still young in a way that exceeded my years, And he was only just on the edge of innocence. He used to smile at me like a child, And I was just learning to crawl. It was dark then, we used to shut out the stars, And wrap the night around us like a sheet, The bustling world shut out and forgotten. He would bring his lips to brush against mine, As we fell into small deaths. It was Winter then and the cold gripped me, Chill creeping up

The way you look at me now is like I am something mythic, A newly-fallen child of stars. You slide your hand under my shirt and feel my heartbeat, I lift your chin and your lips to mine, As my leave I take. This is what poets wrote of long ago, And astronomers saw in maps in the sky. The day and night are poised in harmony tonight, The children, Apollo and Artemis, holding hands, Still asleep in their mother's womb. The Summer is gone and the Winter is still waiting, The year has not yet started to walk. How did I find you then, in a crashing sea of buildings? In a night that was lit up like a hilltop at solstice. When I turned I saw you st

I am not a nice guy.