Whenever I get close to you I think I will lose a leg on a land mine

Boredom, loneliness, and a hard dick are a dangerous combination, especially with nothing to do and no one to talk to. 

I haven't had sex in a month; I haven't made love in even longer. 

You are my girlfriend. You are my best friend. You are my world. You are gone. 

You'll be gone for hours like you have been for the past month, and I'll be at home by myself. When you're out, I usually watch the clock like a television. The red digital numbers constantly changing every 60 seconds, as I think about you coming down the hall, opening the door to the apartment, and stepping inside. I think about you staying, just being around, and pretend you are happy. 

I miss you. Even when you are home, I miss you. 

At night, we sleep on different couches. We eat different meals for dinner. We feel different about each other. 

Right now, you are gone, and I am horny. 

I go into the bedroom, and see a pair of your panties (a charcoal grey thong) on top of the pile of clothes in the laundry basket. I pick them up, take my shirt off, pull down my grey basketball shorts, and boxers with the monkeys eating bananas, to my ankles, and I am naked. 

I hold the thong up to my nose, inhale, and remember what it's like to be inside you. I am a bull in heat that has already been put out to pasture. 

I take a clean pair of your panties,(the powder blue boy shorts with white polka-dots) wrap them around my hard dick, and pretend that you don't turn away when I try to kiss you. I pretend that we are in an alternate universe, and that things aren't actually the way they are. I pretend you still love me. 

I lay down on the couch, and start stroking. Holding the dirty charcoal thong up to my nose, I inhale, collecting your DNA, which I use to create a clone of you in my mind. I close my eyes, and remember you being on top of me saying, "I never want to be with anyone else. I never want to be with anyone except you." Just like the numbers on the clock, with each passing second things change. Feelings change. You and I change. 

I compare the past to now, and get off, having the most painful orgasm I have ever had in my entire life. I make sure not to make a mess in your clean pair of panties so you won't know what they were used for. 

I put your dirty charcoal thong back in the laundry basket, and fold the powder blue boy shorts with the white polka-dots, and put them back on the shelf with the knowledge that the next time you wear them, my dead skin cells will be rubbing up against the most intimate part of your body. 

I hide the sun underneath 

Your tongue watching your mouth

Burn in the darkness between 

Fingers covered in ash. 

You will never speak to me again. 

I chew your index finger 

Down to the knuckle,

And your blood tastes

Like copper as it runs

Down my throat. 

Your bones are made of lead,

And you write your needs

Down on the back of my skull:

"I need time."

"I need space."

"I need to be alone."

So I pick galaxies and stars

Out of the night sky,

Put them in a jar,

And give them to you

As a going away present,

Before climbing into a black hole;

Disappearing forever. 

Fuck it. 

Tonight, we lay down together. I spread your legs, and cut you open with a pair of scissors, then you do the same to me. We are inside of each other and our exposed ribs fit together like a pair of hands. The positive pregnancy tests proven true. Inside each of us is a fetus made of frowns. 

Your face is a window pane

I smash with balled fists. 

I kiss the broken glass

And wash you down with blood,

Scrubbing your skeleton clean. 

You are the biggest 

Asshole I know besides

Myself. 

And this morning,

Four people said

I should break 

You in half

With a baseball bat. 

But I would rather 

Break you into thirds

With a hammer,

And reassemble 

The pieces in all

The wrong places 

Because I love you,

You shithead. 

This is my method of relaxation. 

This is my daily dose. 

This is my support group. 

Fuck you. 

Eaten.

As time passes,

I lose more parts

To strangers, relatives,

The elderly, babies,

Collection agencies,

Friends, therapy,

To my girlfriend, 

And people I care about. 

To myself. 

Walking, running, sitting,

Unconscious, awake,

It doesn't matter. 

Like a poster tacked

To a wall,

I am resigned to my outcome. 

Jaws snap, canines slice,

Molars grind, swallowed whole. 

Pieces missing:

Pinky fingers, a foot, an arm,

Half a sternum, 3/4 of a heart,

And the whole frontal lobe

Replaced by bite marks

And strands of warm saliva. 

Gone. Gone. Gone. 

Veins dangling stuck between teeth,

Like a row of used nooses hanging

From a beam in the rafters. 

My emotions are infected,

And pouring out of the fresh lacerations

Onto the tiled kitchen floor. 

I don't notice, even recognize. 

Can't begin to process

What's happening. 

Alone. 

Laying on a couch. 

Packing open wounds

With pink insulation

To stop the bleeding, thinking,

And to absorb the tears. 

It's so hot. 

Dark. 

Damp. 

Empty. 

I lose track of 

The days, hours, and seconds. 

So hopeless. 

In this process of digestion,

I can only be saved by

A finger down the throat,

Or a knife to the stomach. 

im sorry. i know i need to do better.

i have a lot of ideas, but i'm just a lazy bastard. see fuck up.

too many fast food bathrooms, and backseats of cars in a grocery store parking lots,

observing blood going up a tube, then back down.

keep a look out.

be quick,

so no one sees.

light up a cig.

and we are out.

covered in puke after the ride up.

laughing about it now after the miracle cure: this time remy martin.

but knowing the clock is always ticking with each passing second injecting more anxiety into my mind.

we need money.

the sickness is in the mail.

and there's no return to sender address.

in this game of russian roulette, let's hope for the best.