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The Boy I Miss Most

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I miss quiet moments with myself, when my wit creates prose, not solutions. In these minutes of solitude, I'd free-write something like "You put the art in artificial" while listening to music redolent of my tears, like  Stelle E Luna  or  Hanniou . My mind wouldn't fester at the thought of pending status or wage claims or mending some  half-assed entrepreneur's operational dysfunction at minimum wage. I'd exist in the context of my craft. I'd be an artist again.  I consider every person I've ever known, loved, and lost—all those chapters of my life that ended with me hanging from the cliff. I gaze at this broad selection of muses, all of whom I've revived with lyricism. That's when I realize that the boy I miss most is myself.  I used to be the artist, before I became the concept of some equation, a variable to be solved. I used to feel love; now I feel myself yearn for it. Part of me feels at home here. And part of me thinks home is something...
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Diary Entry

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I think I confide in literature as one confides in a friend. My screams are inaudible on these pages. Here, pain can cinder without catching flame. I know the pressure of meeting absence where I once found closure as my words know the pressure of my pen. I have reached a point in my life where I am one with isolation.  My spirit feeds on betrayal, and it has for some time. When I breathe in, it isn't air. It's animosity. I envy people who say they hate no one. I envy children because they're innocent. I envy Christians, too, because they pretend to forgive. I can't even do that.  All this emotion, all this rage, and yet the only person I wish death upon is myself. If only because I don't want to be here when the idealism dies. I'm not suicidal, but sometimes I lie in bed with my eyes open and imagine myself passing from this life. I'd die alone, but I'd die quietly. Until then, I confide in my prose, for my prose is my expression. 
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This Is Me Letting Go

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I used to believe in love that burns slowly. Kind, considerate, and respectful—the kind that thrives within healthy bounds. I always imagined that life with you would feel more like a voyage, one that was scenic, one that taught us how to behold. The truth is, I just wanted to be held, too.  What you did,  what you broke —it bleeds past the heart. You've shattered my idea of marriage. You've incinerated every innocent notion I ever had about exclusivity. Was I ever something you cherished? Or have I always been occupied like land? Did you think an apology would cauterize my trust? That time would heal something arterial? Can't you see? My wound is infected, my blood is septic, and I am dying. While you're on some existential journey with your therapist, asking yourself, "Why did I do it?" I'm passing from one world to another, trying to be okay with being disrespected.  In my heart, I know that it's over, and every time I let you into my home, it feels...
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