setting fire to Calendars.

yesterday:

i was a victim of 5000 degrees soaked in putrid anticipation,
a heart attack all balled up in an ulcer taking a nap in my skull--
12-hour-shifts of screaming veins
losing everything but white-hot love/hate/indecision.
i was a stagnant industrial revolution
complete with bedsores,
smuggling memories into my Depression Lockdown
disguised as masochism.
there was still room
to be in love with you,
yesterday
in my car.

today:

i am doused in a rotten shade of yellow,
like pus from the bleeding sores my eyes have become,
unable to look away from the meticulously vile sunshine.
i am obsolete, dead weight in my own skin,
inviting bluebirds to eat out my unmotivated arteries
to make room for rejection.
i am very afraid that my eyelashes will turn to glass
and i will go blind--
i never want to see your beautiful face again;
i cannot wait to see you again.

tomorrow:

is a negative variable shot through my heart,
sitting uncomfortably in my crooked spine
just begging for a car crash or a
bar fight
[and i am eager to please]
i will still be an oil spill to your blue blue seas,
and i will always be VIOLET--
the bruised off-brand of your perfect cerulean.
we are miles apart
we are oceans apart
we are worlds apart because you are beautiful,
and i am not a tiger or a cyclone
and maybe i am not really a life,
either.