My Own Butcher

Still don't know what to believe
but you say i wasn't a tool.
i accept the way i feel for you
i accept how you don't.
besides unreturned emotions are far better than most
there are worse states of mentality...
and i butchered my arm off before it got ugly,
before the limb developed a mind of its own - dismembered,
along with a loss of hope.
i cope, so shakily.
you faked, your vacancy.
i moved right in, suitcases filled, teeming with exhilaration
at the simple coziness of your rib case.
i didn't know a living ghost lingered;
didn't notice
the bloodstains on the couch.
i must've been too busy kissing your mouth.
or bathing in blankets of raunchy affection
i naively mistook for flame.
(hasn't this happened before?)
but it was real from my side of the bed, by the way.
(i hope i never say that again.)
so props to you and your name.
in one week
you turned a rational being insane.
and i'm suffering now because i still adore you.
excuse me please, while i keep my insides from caving.

Answering my Own Questions

i don't really want to answer my own questions;
don't feel the need to answer to my old demons
i left enough of them behind.
but lately, with you on mind
why, i'm the epitome of glee,
succeeded by a penetrating misery.
this, i safely hide.
but it's got me on edge.
while i strain from tapping again the end of a cigarette,
damn it's got me fucking irritated.
i can't find you-
inside your head
while you're inside mine.

i'm just a lopsided star

I must've believed I was made of elastic
straining myself in five different directions
and even though the pressure shrieked frantic,
the band should've snapped sooner than unexpected.
and now I retreat back to size,
defeated.
Fuck.
I cannot afford to lose any one point.
For one connection omitted means a lopsided star.
the story of my life: a center-missing heart.