The Best of Me



You must know by now that I’m an avid fan. You must feel it in your bones that my idea of love is not like any other love. The dreams people dream- how boring they seem compared to what we keep within our shattered heads. But just because they’re shattered doesn’t mean they’re broken. Our love is bathed in blue light- the kind you find in a lagoon where young girls without morals frolic and writhe so excited at the prospect of what remains of their promiscuous lives. As my fingers play with the curls of your hair, lay me down upon a bed of leaves and say that this sadness won’t last forever, because I don’t want to feel like this until it’s time to say goodbye. The struggle is a fine one, oh, it’s simply divine, and yet things get so hard. Day in. Day out. The same always the same wishing for a kind of release that never feels forthcoming. But the kicks we get from going against the grain- the thrills to be had in doing things the wrong way- they can never take them away from us. When you cry, does it make you feel weak inside- or does it remind you that you’re alive? A smile. A gust of wind. Sometimes windchimes, sometimes the feel of your nipple against my chin as you push me down upon the bed refusing to let go. Make me submit. Hold that mirror to my face and keep it there until the liquid flows like a river from my tired eyes and my lips tremble even though I try so hard to pretend I’m made of stone. All that I am is all that I can be. All that you give me is all that I can become.


A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

8 replies »

  1. Your work is so full of pain and passion that it lashes out and leaves a scar that stays for much longer after leaving… I have really missed visiting your page as often as I used to. Hope you have been well. Cheers.

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