a tiny glimpse.

poison leaks.

purge yourself of any and all human toxicity
and watch yourself transform.

efficacy.

Phase 0:  single sub-therapeutic doses are given to a small number of subjects to gather preliminary data on the agent’s poemcodynamics (what the poem does to the body) and poemcokinetics (what the body does to the poem).

Phase 1: researchers test an experimental poem (“treatment”) in a small group of people for the first time to evaluate its safety/wordweight, determine a safe dosage range (“level of publicity”), and identify side effects (see: inability to form new memories).

Phase 2: the experimental treatment is given to a larger group of people to see if it is effective, properly wordsmithed, and to further evaluate its safety. 

Phase 3: the treatment is finally released to large groups of people
(1,000+)
to confirm its effectiveness, correlate it to dangerous behaviors (see: consistent refusals of reality), compare it to commonly used treatments (various, situationally dependent), and collect information that will allow it to be used safely.

Phase 4: postmarketing studies delineate additional information, including the treatment’s risks, benefits, and optimal use.

Diagnosis:
                               life birthed me sickly and afflicted,
                               cyclically addicted

Rx:
                               re(e(value)ate)ing my core
                               in a relentless hunt for my cure.

the letter begins like this:

there are two things about which you must know:

the events of Saturday, December 8th, 2012,

and a girl named Mallory.

do all those things that are pulling on your heart and life will sound like a song again and you will know the words.

(Source: youwiththeanchoredeyes)

his final lesson:

the moment you realize it is poison

stop drinking.

i bet she cackles,
grossly, dripping with lack of intelligence;
i bet she is unnecessarily cruel, brash,
turning herself into a sideshow under the ‘entertain me’ threat
of your raised eyebrow, your dismissive wave.

i bet you love how easily she fits herself beneath you,
behind you,
below you where she belongs - compartmentalizing herself at your feet
into all the places you could never quite shove me.

you forget that i am a human being after you,
i was a human being before you,
and that the human being i turned into under you
is someone that i had never known.

to be so utterly callous, so purposefully cruel to one who cares about the true you? your choice.

the consequences of that?
no longer my concern.

heart like an open door. becoming a stranger to the warm i give so freely. sometimes i need the reminder that i lived here first. 

(Source: youwiththeanchoredeyes)

there have been men since, of course.

they have fearlessly met my eye and told me things that i have never heard;
touched the small of my back in a way that tells me they have seen treasure in me; 
looked at me with a soft gaze that screams “i am listening right now in ways i didn’t even know i could.”

it is the way they’ve kissed me. 
pulled me close, grins on their lips at the pure joy of loving freely
and i know it is not that suddenly, i am finally seen;

it is that now, i refuse to entertain those who only wish to meet my shadow.

vainglorious.

how can i say
“i am glad i never told him about the poems;
i am glad he never knew”
flippantly, as some current comfort?
i say it now, in his absence, making excuses for the selfishness
of hiding my very skin in a place we’d built and climbed inside of, forging an explicit agreement to strip bare.

how can i accept this attempt at a mental self shoulder squeeze,
acting as if my foresight was as 20/20 as my hind,
as if i planned it,
refused him,
preemptively barriered off access to a place i thought he’d surely gut?

how can i say this,
intending the words to fault him for his incompetence at comprehension,
to be added punishment
atop losing me
for his lack of empathy, our failures in harmony, 
without admitting that it could mean nothing except
“i am glad i never told him about my soul;
i am glad i chose to never let him know me”

i am always learning from him,
from the before and the during and god, from the after of him,
and this is just his latest lesson:

be careful what you are proud of.

i forget how irrationally dead weighted your heart is.