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Waste not, want not. I cannot atone. Our homes are in the soil. Our hands are red and cold. We wait for his motion; forward, downward. Descent. Senseless. Alone. I’ll never see the light of day again. The sun hangs grey and static, sinking in oppression. Waste not, want not. The chill rests in my bones. My hands are red and cold, devoured by my own shell of selfishness. I can’t stop seeing this day in my head. I can’t keep watching you age; sadly, slowly feeling my own. I am complacency; vacuous, enabling. Void. Jaundice. Relentless antipathy. I’m sorry. Siren sounds floating like feathers to fire. Abandoning autonomy. I’m just what’s left of me: faultless, selfless, apologetic. There is no rest in routine; no sleep, no silence, no blessing or scourge. The sun still sets. The moon still waits. My days still end the same. There is no rest in routine. I’ve tasted the body of milk and honey. Nothing has changed. The mornings grow colder. The nights grow longer. The sun still sets. The moon still waits. These days still end the same. I just want to float in your warmth. Jovial innocence, callow and calm. Perfect lethargy, lingering onward. Blissful undoing. Drinking in winter. This is forever.

Further, you only wish to sway and pull and harm. Further, for I will keep her safe within my arms. Lover, could you not keep to the love you swore? I have made your face into something that I can't stand to see. Pacing from the side vinyl to the door, across your ash-stained balcony. And the same way I had let this birth I will let this die, and you will become just another body I will use to waste my time. You are just a body that I will use to waste my time. You are just a plague. [...] If truth is found in innocence then words are meant to keep, but the weight of comfort is too much and I am just too weak to hold to the love you swore. The weight of truth, the love you brought wasn't love enough for me to hold to the love you swore to me. I have seen a greater light than a body within my bed, naked from the warmth of a love within my head.

You can't help but to lose sight of the spectrum when color is no more than a concept. There is no cure for the most subtle sort of blindness, it just festers, and grows, and develops inside. If this is my wits' end, where do they begin again? If this is how it has always been then this is how it shall remain. As everything surrounding slowly fades into grayscale, life is much less where it once was found abundant. This is evisceration. This is passion tearing through flesh and bone. I'm an amalgamation of the fears that I've found in my time spent alone. It isn't me, it isn't me, I swear I'm all I am, I'm just taking everything as was prescribed. And if it isn't meant to be then lay it out in front of me, a reminder of what's keeping me alive. I'm reclaiming my flaws and embracing tomorrow.

Where can I find a shred of light throughout this desolation? It all ends the same. I don’t know if I can be there to lead the procession home. Not me. Not anyone. Not me. How many years will I miss? Days? Weeks? Nothing you’ve said is forgotten, tainted, rusted away. I’ll carry you with me. I’m not alone any more. I promise. It’s just sometimes I can’t stay happy, though I swear I’m still the same. Am I you to your father now? Do we smother the ash in your hair? It’s just worry, weary and weathered, bent through my heart like a stake. Am I you to your father now? I’m anxious, unraveled. I’ll take your words to heart before I carve them into a stone. And what of my children? How well will they know you? I hope that they can see even half of what I do. Time always proves toxic; we’re resilient in youth, but now I’m left praying that age will wait for you. I don’t want to be the one to brush the dust from your hands, hoping that one day I can be a better man.

“Certainty,” we are told, “is a luxury granted to few through instruction.” Nothing has ever been sacred, holy, set apart. Never. Spoon-fed, force-fed watered down “wisdom” espousing the status quo. I only exist as I am rendered; apostate, shaped in the eyes of tradition as little more than the yield of misgivings. This system: “blessed,” “edifying,” mocking the worth in words. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? This soil is cursed, we continue to sow it. Our bodies have withered in time for the harvest. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? Will I mold to your ideals or do I get to keep my own? Why should I gather everything to fill a box of empty space? I’m collapsing as you fill me with your bastard sense of grace. Every fleeting notion is a burden left to bear, an educated filter for breathing stagnant air. We’re forgotten, abstraction, novelty, worthless, always imperfect. The death of purpose.

With our bodies broken to the bone, buried from death, fossilized into stone -- and these stones that we use to build our homes, we all seek it, oh, we all know that we reap what we sow. And with our hearts altered by decay from the weight of our love deviating to shame, every anoxic thought bleating to disdain, carbonized coal to fuel our necrotic state. As we survey along each surface and shovel through all the grime and the dirt, excavating every notion to understand that we threw out the gems with all of the pain and the hurt. Every feeling suppressed came seeping through our skin and our teeth and at the washing of the tide we are preserved by replacing cognition with a sense of vacuity. Should I prepare my fragments and polished cases? Should I burn the coal I've made? Broken down. The choices that we've made in the past will show themselves as our bodies and feelings erode away with time. Our many transgressions will come to light as we reinterpret our lives. I don't want to feel this way any more, collapsing night after night, pressing my face to the floor. I've been a mess since the moment you left, leaving my heart in shambles, I'm emotion bereft. Refining the ruin that we've made, proclaiming innocence with ill intent. Still hiding from errors all the same, we should know we'll reap what we sow. We all know we'll reap what we sow.

I couldn't feel it building up beneath me. There you were with that look upon your face and that gasp upon your breath. These hands weren't meant to hurt. This is a testament to loathing all of the things that I have said, that I have done, that I have made. I couldn't hold it in. I can't take it back. Bursting, vulgar, ruminate the aftermath.

Returning glances to black-patterned eyelids. Demeaning slowly with self-centered silence. Lead me into my own abyss. [...] I can feel the shadow of your hand creeping up every single inch of my body. You have nothing to offer. You are nothing to me. Nothing remains, but a matter of duplicity. How long do I have to wander? I've felt the fear and cold, but you still have your hold. An apparition to ponder; your form, it breathes deceit. Your touch has branded me. You have led me through night after night of misguided thoughts and lack of direction. I have become yours, you have become mine. Intervention. Failure. Remorse. Your foundation is shaken with every laugh, every smile, every institution of confidence. You will be evicted from a home that was never your own. Each one of these eyes seeks out a different conclusion.

Crowded and white, avoiding all intrusion. Hiding at night, lights in the walls and noise under blankets. I couldn't bear to believe this moral self-abandonment, crushing inclinations and the things we once held fast. Loyalties are on a steady decline, plummeting below the most animalistic nature. These ever-swirling signals are still a sign of distress. I saw myself last night, discontented with unfamiliarity and the people we've become. I'm tired of hiding in a place where I should be comfortable. I've been sinking for too long, burdened with disdain. I'm at the bottom. I've traded my will for this shell of a body.

I called upon my demons and this is what they said: “Heed the words that we bring forth, do your worst until you’re dead. Write their names upon your hands and fill their lungs and hearts with lead. Youth is teeming with its offers, guide its body to your bed. Adopt the dreadful ways of others and the hatred they have bred. Cleanse your weary head of innocence while their integrity is bled. Gently pulsing on with anger, leaving every mouth unfed. Cut the hand from either arm before its acts can reach your head.”
I subsided on skin and smoke, attaching my attention to a false and fleeting feeling, seeking anything appealing for a moment’s time. And I keep slipping through every phrase, tearing through page after page, the structure has amended, but the cadence hasn’t changed.
I was guilty, envious and venomous. My body was amphibious, my mind was feigning innocence. I was swept under the current of my own naiveté, taken aback by crimes against conscience unconsciously.

You've always said that this should be a sanctuary and I know you've kept your word. As I find my actions falling short, I'll keep the lessons I have learned. These streets remain so familiar, memories lingering in their quiet, bewildering nature. Beneath my feet are the crumbled remains of fall growing colder. These ambitions are keeping me young, evoking childlike wonder. Where has the time gone? Where do the days go when they leave us? I've left so much behind, but home is where my heart is.

There’s a smile that I wish I could find; just a whisper in the current left listless and undefined. You’re still the apparition on the backs of my eyes; an uncertain dissonance humming onward as I seek sleep. Sleep for myself, it’s yours if you need it, but the dawn won’t allow us to keep it. I’ll keep talking until you finish my sentences; you always do. I keep finding myself floating on waves of silent disagreement, illustrating my own insensitivities. I’ll swallow my pride if my stomach can hold it. You can cut me back open.

Is it wrong to say that I’ve been praying softly I’ll go first? I’m still coping with where love goes when we’re sleeping in the dirt. I’ll bury you in orchids hoping heartlessly to bloom. I’ll dread the hours left as sunlight sneaks into our room. I’ll pack our lives in paper, tell my friends that I’ll be fine. I’ll burn our memories in silence just so nothing’s left behind. I’ll keep your image in my eyelids and your voice inside my head. I’m still sorry for the things I’ve never done and never said.

The ground is littered with the remnants of remembrance. There will be no memorial; no monument made. We will only receive but passing glances. Our fingers, intertwined, breaking away, we are painfully aware that there is nothing left.

There is no solace. The bastard offspring of advances in the name of detachment, bred without shame for replacement parts, disconnecting nature from nurture. Artless. Ambivalent. Fabricated corporality. Birth without growth. Calculated lust without chord or creation. I want to scratch the surface; someone else’s memories beyond these walls. I want a home that is my own. Can my mind even wander if someone else has staked their claim on it? Is there a place to speak softly? These thoughts must be put to rest. We’re conceived in misconception. We are warmth in vacant wombs. We are birthed with perfect posture, arms held high and heads hung low. I’m not waiting for the truth. I’m not leaving myself open. I’m a product of perception, of perspective, life less loved. We’re conceived in misconception. We are warmth in vacant wombs. We are birthed with perfect posture, arms held high and heads hung low. We are raised to give all that we have and then we die. Will you still be there to hear my whispers? To hold my hand when it’s almost over? Will we find safety in the autumn weather? Without a care for the time or place? Is it okay for me to still be scared of what comes next or what I’ll leave behind? And though my body becomes cold and broken, I am complete.