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She put the house up
For sale

I saw my past life
Flashing before my eyes

The kitchen
Where I made dinner
And that day I made more naan
Than we could eat, but I did it
Without my shirt on

The kitchen
Where she left me notes by the coffee pot
The coffee pot that kept me going on the hardest days

The kitchen
Where I hung that ee cummings poem somewhere I have never travelled gladly beyond

But she replaced it

Twice

The kitchen
Where she screamed at me
That time I had an accident
And melted

The kitchen
where I finally yelled
“I deserve to be with someone who wants to support me emotionally”

The living room
Where she threw that candle at me
And broke my foot

The living room
Where the television
Still holds my face print from when we hung it, and I almost dropped it

The living room
Where I spent days painting
But on the last day made her help
And I didn’t wear any pants

The living room
Where the couch we bought is 
falling apart from the time she fucked that other girl there and the lotion
The lotion ate away the faux leather

The dining room
With the chairs I hand sanded and painted
It took me a week
And cost me a pair of shoes

The dining room
Where I painted the built in cabinets with the wrong color because she didn’t help me that time

The dining room
Where we hardly ever ate

The spare bedroom
She told her parents was my room

And when I made it my office
She complained at the mess I work through

The spare bedroom
Where I painted alone
Again because she refused to help

The spare bedroom

The spare bedroom

And her bedroom
She painted again
The second time I left

She painted again on the day she demanded I come get my stuff

And her bedroom
Where she called the other side of the bed the pssenger side

And her bedroom
That she shared with me
And her and her and her and her

And her bedroom
Where she choked me in the closet

And her bedroom

And the front porch
Where I watched the rain
And read my books

The front porch
Smoking cigarettes

The back yard
Where I read books to her

The back yard
That she refused to fence in

The back yard

That caved in

The back yard
And the driveway
We resealed together
Pulling weeds and filling cracks

She put the house up
For sale
I walked through it one more time

And cried

And closed the door

Without slamming it

Without leaving a key
this time

I guess it’s haunted

I guess it’s time

My atrophied heart 
still whispers in the dark

Love me 

Love me

Love me 

Hold me close
Put your hand over my mouth 
Tell me all your secrets
I’ll lock them deep inside

The closet of my mind
The skeletons have turned to dust
Settling around our bed
A boneyard of grief

Exploded under the pressure
I swear it looks like glitter
Glass blown to smithereens
Stomped to a fine powder

A party for one

For a Friend

Our reality is always qualified by opposites. 

Light and dark

Joy and pain

Here and there

Death and life
But we do not exist in absolutes. 

We are always on the continuum. 

One is not the absence of the other

There is no absolute zero of reality 

There is no complete stillness in life

There is movement still in death. 
An object at rest stays at rest. 

The body without life may rest in peace. 

But the final breath that escapes our lungs as our bodies relax for the last time pushes our existence further. 
Memory is energy. We remain our earthly selves in the minds of those we have touched after we have exhaled our final glittering moment at the end of a string of glittering moments. 
Death marks the best beginning of any life. 
Death is marred by a fear of impermanence in existence. It is revered as the final and permanent end to all opportunity. 
Death is not to be feared. Death is carved out for the bravest of all creatures. Those who have fought, and won may be victors. But those who have fought and lost are our heroes. 
Death is the war medal that we receive once our life has been officially spent. 
Death is the coming home,

A moment of release

A relief from the earthly pains. 
We don’t mourn death. We lament a loss of life. But we have failed to qualify it.
 Death is 

entering the light

Finding perfect joy

Returning to here

Where we all received 

An earthly life. 

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I must kill my muse.
It will not be easy.
She doesn’t deserve to die.
She doesn’t deserve to live.

We were cut from the same scrap of craft store fabric. Left in a heap on the floor. Marked down. We were never meant to be accents.

I must kill my muse because she has grown too big. She bites back. No longer carefully crafted words from a lifetime of misunderstanding.

My muse is a horror
And she can no longer live.
I have tried to write her wrongs.
And I only wrong my rights.

The muse must die. So that I can live.
To be absolved she must dissolve.
I will pour the gasoline of my words over her body.
And light the fire in my heart.
I will spit the hell song that she has sung to me.
And she will
Die before I do.