#5

she is beautiful. not in the gaudy sense of the word... but beautiful in the classic sense. she is definitely way too beautiful to be here. with me. while picturing amber trenton out of this context, i see her descending cedar staircases in the atrium of the titanic, milky pearloid dress flowing. as if the air moved around her. she belonged with a sophisticated man in a successful suit holding an expensive bottle of wine, guiding her down the stairway from heaven by the light branch that was a hand. attached to a gloved arm that was a limb. in my imagination, i can see myself yearning to be that man. to offer my hand. to take her to classy restaurants with overpriced menus and undersized portions. to order things i cant even pronounce. to retire to a summer cottage in the hamptons. and a winter cabin in aspen.


its 6am. its cold outside. snow falls heavily, silently outside. you cant even hear it hit the gutters. i touch the window.. ten degrees farenheit is my guess. i look at her. all the cold mayhem culminating in climax outside the window is immediately offset by the warm serenity i see in my lap. i touch her cheek as if to make sure shes real. she is. all of a sudden, a swirling tangerine warmth melts me. all the collective ice is dusted off. i feel my skin tone start to brighten to a deep hue of orange. i feel warmth in my fingertips for the first time in months. i feel alive for the first time in weeks. she should be in 1912 in the grand foyer of the titanic. with an audience to marvel at her beautiful radiance. but instead... shes with me. on a cheap berber carpet. in the middle of colorado. in the middle of a blizzard. decay surrounds her. including myself. i am the casket of myself. merely looking for the next body to swallow until i become full again. then i will digest my food and look for the next meal. I immediately feel cheap. my existence is a burden on her life. she should have never known me. never met me. she deserves a prince of scotland on a noble steed to sing her to sleep everynight. not some animalistic habitual over consumer of alchohol.

I wake her up in my silent rage. she somehow hears the gears in my cerebrum grinding together. to mesh gears is impossible. i catch the worlds most heartbreaking glance from the eyes of what could have been a baby doe. the most beautiful, serene, compassionate of all baby doe. this nice woman... the one who fed me. housed me in my homelessness. it takes a moment for eye contact to become established. her tranquil pools of eyes see right through my intelligent, calculating, stone cold glare. i boil her pools with my white hot glance. not being able to take the heat, her eyes avert back my bare chest. she places her hand there. i close my eyes. on the back of my eyelids, i see figure eights being drawn on my sternum and broken hearts drawn on my thigh. i mean the world to her. she means nothing to me. i oil my mechanisms, ice my heart with hate, and sleep soundly to dreams of coffins swallowing bodies whole