Whose Lives Matter?

So this is how my countrymen really feel about me and mine - they would see us shot dead like dogs because of the uniform we wear.

No one should have to give their life for an ungrateful nation, no one.

Please . . . no more dreams in which I have to watch my best friends die.

Untitled: Sophia

There was so much clarity between us.

Not In A Slint Way (But I Miss You)

Your bedroom was directly adjacent to the laundry room.

You and your clothing always smelled like clean sheets.

I never made the correlation between the two until now.

(Your scent was that of security and comfort, and I miss it to this day.)

Untitled: Janet

It's been a long time . . . but I appreciate it, despite the memories.

In The Company of Ghosts

I hope you're enjoying the view from above,
because we sure as hell miss you down here.

If these night terrors continue to manifest themselves than I will be left no choice but to forgo sleep entirely. It is simply not worth it anymore.

On behalf of all of humanity, I apologize.

E.O.W. 10/08/2016

Virtue cannot exist without atrocity and vice versa; such is the duality of the human experience. Yet I will sleep better tonight knowing that the sacrifices you made in this life did not go unrecognized by the community that you served. This sleepy desert resort town has restored my faith in the decency of humanity in the wake of unjustifiable violence and heartbreak.

Greater love has no one than this, that he or she lay down their life for their friends. Mark my words officers, your efforts did not go unnoticed. You will be remembered.

I'm beginning to wish my nightmares weren't so accurate.

κεανός

There is nothing I have ever wanted more than for you to hold this deep inside your heart, to lay beside me while my halo burned to ashes in the wake of a year of worthless promises.

Bella, your name was a lifeline. I had synchronized my heartbeat to the sound of bridges burning only to lose myself in the echo of your voice, every syllable leading me ever closer to the end. There were times I had whispered your name in the dead of night until my lips bled, slipping into unconsciousness with nothing more than the feeling of your body with his and the sound of you sighing and sharing our moments without me.

You know better than anyone that I fall harder than anyone.

And yet it all seemed so real when you spoke, every whisper adorned with rose petals and the best of intentions. Your accent was an amalgamation of metaphors, of foreign cultures and familial upbringings, every word nestled in the softest of italics to remind me of the places that are not where I am and remain to be seen.

"The purpose of life is not to find ourselves but to lose ourselves."

I had lost myself so many times in search of you. Until the void where you end and I begin forged an ocean in your exile, and the distance in-between became nothing short of perfection.

"Someone somewhere loves you or is waiting to love you, I swear."

You were everything I wanted at night, a bulwark to counteract these nightmares coming to life. I dreamt through your every encounter, every caress a waking dream, and even now my heart skips a beat at the memory of how you married me with a sympathy kiss, our saliva shining silver as we made love . . .

Waking up in the middle of the night with a broken arm snapped in half at the elbow and hanging limp from a flap of skin is no fun either.

This Is Really Happening

Today my nightmare nearly came true.

I Keep Dreaming of the Ways I Will Die

If my dreams are to be taken seriously than I will die either as a direct result of a suicide bombing or at the hands of an individual carrying out a mass shooting in a public place.

Oceans Within Me

There are oceans within me,
and the bottom is so much deeper
than I would have ever thought possible.

Christie

Happy birthday. I hope this finds you well.

Horizon Line (AKA Hell Is For Heroes Part V)

From my bedroom window I watch tiny pinpricks of starlight dance defiantly like seraphs on the backs of each crashing wave. Salt water droplets slowly crystalize into random patterns on my window pane and the mild scent of salt water permeates the room.

There is a distinct feeling of anticipation and discovery coursing through the veins of the city tonight: ions displacing air molecules and the iridescent whisper of jetstream confessions bearing witness from the backs of raging Atlantic Ocean waves.

I can feel my body begin the disintegration as I slip silently down the old staircase and into the waiting arms of the city. Concrete alleyways unfold before me in every direction, illuminated by the afterglow of street lamps reaching out like halos from above my head. A single snowflake lands at my feet, a silent harbinger of the storm brewing just beyond the horizon line.

My sneakers kiss asphalt, each step a silent gunshot slicing through the humble streets ahead. It has been years but my grandfather's dying words still echo in my head: "The world feeds on us all . . . "

No one ever told me that growing up would entail having to bear witness to the irreversible decline and inevitable demise of the people that I love. Such is the ironic duality of existence: with every passing second I am dying here in front of you. It is the inescapable curse of every living creature.

And yet, don't we all at some point feel as if we will live forever? That we will outlast the sun, the moon, the stars and all men? Immortality is an unfamiliar architecture to the dead and the dying (and by living are we not dying the slowest of deaths?)

Or all we all just funerals-in-waiting? What is our contribution when the end result is always the same: Inhale, exhale, repeat and die.

My grandfather was correct. The world does, indeed, feed on us all.

Post-Life (AKA Hell Is For Heroes Part IV)

"This way to the great egress," Katy whispers, pulling back the covers and revealing the pistol hidden amongst the detritus beneath her bed. With a steady hand she pulls back and releases the slide, chambering the cartridge with a familiar cha-chink that echoes off the bedroom walls. Katy considers the weapon closely, turning it over in her hands - potential energy made kinetic. A tear slides down her right cheek, staining the carpet at her feet. I reach for her hand and in one fluid motion she takes a step back, raises the weapon to my chest and cocks the hammer.

A tremor passes through my body and disappears into the floorboards. I raise my hands slowly and stifle the scream attempting to tear its way out of my throat.

"Do you think it hurts to die?" she asks.

"It can't be any worse than living," I reply.

"Good answer," she says with a smile. "Life is a terminal disease and the cure is waiting for us on the receiving end of this barrel."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

Katy's smile fades and she averts her eyes.

"I . . . I don't think I'm strong enough to do myself. Will you do it for me?"

I lower my hands. " . . . Sure."

The smile returns to her lips. She loosens her grip on the pistol and I take it from her. The grip is slick with her sweat. I wipe the sweat away with my sleeve as Katy takes a seat at the foot of the bed. Out of the corner of my eye I watch her roll her left sleeve all the way up to the elbow, revealing an arm-full of angry pink scars. As this intimate moment unravels Katy begins to weep and I take a seat next to her on the bed, slipping the pistol into my jacket pocket as I do so.

We sit this way for a long time, the silence punctuated by her softly fading tears.

"Do you know what the funny thing about life is?" I ask after an indeterminate amount of time. Katy turns her head and looks at me with black eyes and a blank expression but says nothing. Her lower lip quivers and I turn away.

After a moment I manage to regain some semblance of composure. Again I try and find the words that will break the tension between us . . . and perhaps save us both.

"The funny thing about life, Katy, is that it only hurts until you die. We have our entire lives ahead of us, with death to look forward to at the end of it all. Death is both infinite and assured, so tell me why our idea of fun is digging our own graves."

"Digging our own graves . . . " she echoes absently to herself.

"Some things in life simply aren't worth rushing. Life will still suck tomorrow so how about we sleep on it?"

A long pause, followed by a heavy sigh of relief . . . and a laugh.

"You always were the rational one," she says, acquiescent.

(The next morning we went downstairs, drove to the waters edge and threw the pistol into the Pacific Ocean. Neither of us ever spoke of this incident again. That was years ago but there are pieces of you in me that I still cannot escape.)

I've never fully understood how fucked I am until this very moment.

Tiffany

The first, last and only time in my life I have gotten choked up watching someone leave. I wish you the best of luck, sweetie.

What if our best days really are behind us?

Nobody Leaves Without Singing The Blues

We always think there is going to be more time.

I am sorry for never killing myself.
Not that it would have changed anything.

80:01

"It makes me feel good, and then I feel nothing at all."

Another Façade

I am waiting impatiently to feel at home in my own skin.

Life (As Performed By)

I won't miss you on the day I fucking die.