All Nights End

Read me. This is as strong as I get. This is as beautiful as I appear. Every morning, I wake up, avoiding mirrors and cameras. I don't want anyone else to see what's plain to me. The best part of me is my pen, and the missives it leaves behind. I feel isolated, and alone. My writing gives me a small glimmer of refuge from my solitude: I care about my friends and readers. That doesn't matter, though.

I wrote love poems. Stacks and stacks of didactic little love songs. Their blatant sentiment is enough to earn "oohs" and "aaahs" from people who don't know a damn thing about poetry. I don't know what's worse, the fact that I wrote them, or that the sentiments are heartfelt. I wrote most of them to Christine, and a lot to Jaime. I remained convinced for years that my best love poems would be in my future. It appears I'm wrong.

When I show them to people anymore, I feel like a small child fingerpainting on the wall. "This is the Sun!" I say. "I love Sunrises; I used to live in Texas, you know, they're the best down there." Next I show them more recent work: "that over there is my Princess . . . Princess Black and Yellow! Isn't she beautiful? She's beautiful to me." This routine might be cute if the little kid is six months old, and the wall was next to repaint anyway, but I'm twenty-six, and my pictures are still ugly.

All nights end, the best ones with sleep. I don't get much of that easily these days. Between writing, pacing, and my worst memories playing right beneath my eyelids, I seem to never rest. I'd sleep more easily if I used my car, but it's too likely to hurt others: that's something I'm not willing to do for any personal agenda. I'd take an overdose, but it's too easy to screw that up with atypicals; with haldol, it would be easy. I'd use my gun, but there's a half a ton of gun safe between me and my weapon. Ask me about it, I'll deny everything. It's not like anyone reads this damn thing anyway. That takes away the pill and the Luger, even though my weapon is a Marlin, leaving a fall. The fall is already in motion: I slip a little more each day. Don't be surprised when I free fall, and don't be sad when I hit. Try to remember 1997, 1986, 2004 or whatever year makes you most comfortable. I grow weaker, uglier, and stranger from reality each day. Someday, you'll wake up and notice I'm not what I was, what I wanted, or what any of you wanted for me. For now, I'll go to bed with a mouthful of antipsychotics, antidepressants, and a choice tranquilizer.