I've gotta be honest. I think you know.

We’re covered in lies, and that’s ok .

This is not poetry. This is not poetry. This is not poetry.

This is my life: a circle inside a circle inside a circle. Like seven of swords, or summer/autumn/winter/spring, or Demeter and Persephone always looking forward until forward is behind them. Someone once told me mallard ducks love in seasons. I told them That’s gotta be my spirit animal. Because I’ve never wanted a home I can’t burn down. I imagine all mallard ducks are demolition experts with a dramatic flair.

When there’s nothing left to burn you have to set yourself on fire.

A year and a half ago, I started writing as an act of introspection. I imagined shedding my past like a battered snakeskin, emerging entirely new into a life I could be proud of. Habits are defined as routines of behavior which occur regularly and tend to occur subconsciously. Every time we reinforce a habitual behavior, neural pathways deepen in our monkey brains. Imagine walking through waist deep snow, trudging down the same path, over and over, packing it down tight with the weight of your memories.

Now leave that path wearing your brand-new skin. Call freezing to death a fresh start.

This is not poetry, this is not poetry. This is not poetry.  

I’ve heard honesty is the best policy. Nobody warns you how hard it can be, when you have so many things to say you’re rendered incapable of speaking. I’ve been afraid of the truth, and the things it might do. I’m frequently a casualty of complacency; prone to fits of combustion. November 23, 2011: my front porch, Anywhere Montana. She said It’s strange to think you two aren’t together anymore. She said I hate when you do this self-destructive bullshit.

Lucy. The first time we tried to watch stars fall, we caught the sunrise instead. I decided then that falling is the laziest way to gain admiration. I don’t know how I became so adept at it.

This is not poetry, this is not poetry, this is not poetry.  

Things I meant to say:

·         I’m sorry. I’m broken.

·         You deserve better.

·         I can’t do this.

·         I still love her.

·         Forgive me.

·         I’m an asshole.

What I said: I’ll still be here. I meant it as a promise but it sounded like a prayer. Like a coin on a gravestone to ferry your soul back across the continent. I’m sorry I gave up on religion so long ago. I am not brave, I am not brave, I am not brave. But you know that now. You called me your anchor, but I’m much more fluent in hurricane.

Honesty is the best policy. This is not poetry. This is not poetry.

You deemed people mirrors, a means of reflecting on yourself. I fancied myself a projection, deflecting people away. I think that’s what this boils down to. Don’t ask me how.

You fucked up, kid. I know.

Do you hate yourself that much? Yes.

You’re going to be lonely the rest of your life. I know.

Is that all you have to say for yourself? Yes.

We really wanted to believe in you.

Thank you.

-b