I thought I was a hopeless romantic – It turns out I was just an addict

Feeling feelings alcoholically, wasted
time on perpetrating men,
victimizing brain cells
to drug and hand
of batterer, filling
veins with silly
love songs from guitar, avoidant
wanting what I couldn’t have,
having what I shouldn’t want,
and always more of it.

The wine tastes sweet when you don’t know what you’re drinking
and even when you do…

Disease of extremes
filling my lungs and choking
me to death, I thrive
on self-destruction
and the voice that wants to kill me sounds
an awful
lot like my own.
I can’t get any better for I’ll never
tell another soul,
for surely that voice of malice, death, destruction
will become theirs and then
and then…

A self-fulfilling prophecy
of no one is going to love me and
“Is someone going to save me?” and
truth is, I can’t
see around me what I can’t see
in myself

so the world looks dark and gloomy
for I am
blinded by the absence
which seethes through every pore
of my body, gone withered,
gone missing

Until
I half-open eye
dwelling somewhere in my spirit –
Banner on linoleum wall, reading
“You are not alone anymore”
Hand, reaching, saying
“You don’t have to be afraid
anymore”
and so I whisper,
“I’m sorry”
to a child
living in my body
and she tells me,
“It’s going to be all,
alright,
just don’t leave me here again.
Start at the beginning
and finish when you’re done
and you’ll know when that is
because you’ll look around and see
how many people you are helping
by drinking
from cup of truth,
not only savoring,
but sharing
every
last
drop.”

EJZ 02.11.2016

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Broken Hands

I don’t like this feeling;
This empty, this
running up stairs and falling, this
unlit matchstick, this
dragging legs on pavement,
this singed,
this scorched,
this damp,
this house is not –
this world is not
a home.

My hands are broken but they still write.

I like the feeling of dreaming.
Closed eyes envision your hands on my bare shoulders,
running your fingers over,
testing the blades for sharpness
as you lay me down
to kiss my clothes off.
I like the feeling of the look in your eyes
and the yes that you take from my lips.

I like the feeling of wine-stained teeth after a full glass,
leaving space for the hue of another
to float on my lips,
sail on my tongue
and swim down my throat
through ocean of blood,
claiming the land of my body,
its own.

I like the feeling of take me away.

I like the feeling of wander.

I like the feeling of smoke replacing the air in my lungs with numb.

I like the feeling of sun
on construction site,
building a thought,
a dream, a goal,
a prayer against a lie.

But this,
this lost and lonesome, this
desert dirt road, this
muffled scream, this
blood-letting soul,
this migraine maze,
this discarded thought,
returning revenge –
I don’t like this feeling.

I’m screaming,
“Replace me!”,
knocking on walls in a 5×8 closet in a school for the deaf.

You tested for sharpness and now your fingers are stained with the blood of my past;
they look like my teeth but a bit less red.
My lips,
now stained with the lies of the sangria wine
and my lungs, disturbed
by the air from this place they believe that they need;
but it’s a slow death,
a morphine drip,
to make you believe there’s no pain
when it’s the only sensation you know;
to keep you here,
dulled –
this house is not –
this world is not
a home.

My hands are broken but they still write.

I like the feeling of pen
crashing on page,
writing scripts for words to call home,
drawing maps,
marking time,
when I’ll walk through streets my feet can feel safe in.

I like that feeling.

I don’t like the feeling leading up to the fracture –
the floating and spinning, the
fear, the
where are we now?
the pencil with erasers on both sides,
writing in language of circular logic –
but I like the feeling of breaking.

I don’t like the feeling of healing –
but I can respect the process.

The house I’ve not built,
the world I’ve not written
is not a home

yet –

My hands are broken
but they still write.

EJZ 05.15.2015