i try and make love to words because of all the lovers i have ever had the words were always the best and no matter how they cut they never actually tried to kill me

i worry one day that they will leave me as well, like every other lover who has seen the real parts of this fractured mutation

until then i will lay them down on the page gently, kiss them all over their voluptuous lips and make them scream as they orgasm again and again and again

they sing to me, scream at me, sometimes they are all i have as i sit hungry staring at the empty pantry, unable to make myself cook they sustain me, when i am at my worst they push me to be better, when i am at my best they remind me i am shit

they are my shield and sword

they are the reason i get up, they are the reason i cannot sleep

they are what makes me smile

they make me sob

they are more real than most people i know

i make love to them all day long, a private affair, these words i share, my hope and despair, my rage and discomfort, uncomfortable in my own skin they let me explore this hell in my mind, make the thoughts tangible, i crochet them into a sweater to wear out and about in the public i cannot stand, cannot face, the eyes that see through me but stumble on my words

they do not judge except when they do, they do not offer solace, except when they do, but never to me, to others, i am aware they are me and i am them, i am their conduit on this earthly plane, i am their holy man, the pontiff, the preacher, the snake oil salesman, the cowboy wrangling them up and throwing them at the world

i use them violently and they use me the same

it is mutual assured dictation

through chapped and bleeding lips they tumble, from arthritic hands they flow, from this cancerous brain and overworked hippocampus, the only part of me that is safe to send out into the ether

art imitates life and life eventually imitates art and all we have are the scars of our sculptures and illegible scribblings on the wall, the smell of wet paint and the pictures we drew of each other

yours with your art, mine with words, yours vibrant and beautiful, mine sharp edges and cutting, together they made the clay and blood and pigment blur into a sardonic angels choir of nonsensical murmured hymnal, and for a brief moment it was perfection

as it fell apart i turned inward and let the words build up from a crescendo to a deafening pulse of anger and self harm, of blame

the words did this not me, they are me, i own that now, too late, too far gone for ever rebuilding the bridge i burned with my fiery tongue and sharp wit, the flames lick and cauterize the cuts i weakly bestow

sometimes the words are razors on my throat, they choke and cut me and as i drown on my own blood by my own hand by my own doing by the words i love because they are mine and i base them off of you and apply them to me and in that they are ours but i am the only one that hears them because you choose not to, do not want to, cannot bear to hear my bare vocabulary

so this is to you, the blank you i cannot see, do not know, may not have met yet, may never meet but if you read this it is for you, these words, these betrayals and softly whispered secrets, these are yours now

hold them, make love to them and they will never steer you wrong

unless you use them in anger, or fear, or love, or to break the silence

make love to them and they will make love to you like no lover ever could, because they are always exactly as they are

except when they are not

duplicitous and perfect, there is nothing without them, no definition or beguiling hidden meaning without a title, with out a string of letters to give them shape, without tongue and voice to form, without fingers to grip the pen, stained hands and hearts united in the vitriol and passion, the hatred and the need, untied abandon and racing to define, to give life

these words will be the death of me

these words will be my legacy

these words are the only driftwood to cling to on the oceans of imagination

on the endless seas of thought

caught in the undertow, catching the undertone, a world of shadows and meandering corridors, trapped in the pages of an unwritten ode

dog earred reminders of the journey, yellowed and faded, brittle from being turned too many times, bitter at being turned down too many times, cracked spines and torn apart

but the words remain

the words remain

the words my last remains

remnants of my last remains

my words

all i have in the drain i circle down

empty

words