Too Much

i like to imagine that one day,
we’ll sit at another bar table—
hands wrapped ‘round a pint glass,
beer in my sight and my breath:
i’ll timidly tremble a “thank you.”

if my eyes dare to meet yours,
my grip on the glistening globs
will fail as they fall on my face.
my perfect public persona:
eroded in an instant.

let me chug this and run—
night will hide my shattering,
my strangled street sobbing.
you pay the tab and tail me:
a shirt will hide my shattering.

i am and you did too much.
with my face buried in fabric,
arms tight ‘round your torso,
hands clutching at clothing—
will you still say, “it’s all good”?





one need not respond
to the fickle misfiring
of my miswired mind:
not you, not anyone,
except me.

I live here,
and it in me—

is tempting,
but temporary:
an exercise of
before exacerbation
of extant emotions
and paranoid notions.

escape is fictitious.

whimsical and capricious,
my eyes are sleepless
with disparate and
desperate ideas
that break my heart
and beg my brain,

ping a person with
priorities in place
that aren’t and
shouldn’t be
pacifying a
parasite as
pathetic as me.

one need not reply,
but I—

I am forced to face—
and never escape—