What's Projected Versus What Is.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, her mouth twitching as her throat swells with every trace of saliva she tries to swallow
Her veins full of frozen mud
Her body drifting away from her
It's not her. She's not her anymore.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, clenching her fists with rage
As great as the bull towards the colour of the numbers on her digital alarm
Time doesn't matter anymore.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, as salt stained waters condense on her pale cheeks
Quivering and shaking, she seeks a new identity
Clutching the cross she wears around her neck
Remember the God she thought had loved her.

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
She asked, as sweat perspirates on her brow
The thought of what just happened
Turns the butterflies to knives
As she seeks an answer to the question

"Is it still making love if it's rape?"
I asked myself,
With no one there to listen
To answer
To care.

Photophobic Acoustic Neuromas

It's 3:24 in the morning.
Thoughts of sleep creep into my head like animals trying to make a nest
They flutter quickly out my ears as the screwdriver continues to twist into my skull
These are the nights that kill.
My eyes swell like helium balloons
I wish my body would rise
I wish the sun wouldn't.

Darling, can't we keep the light off?
There's enough to see, isn't that enough?
You want to see every bit of me.
I just want to sleep.
My irises absorb the rays
Swelling in increasing increments
It gets worse with the passing of days
Bloodshot, I give in.
A little pill to quell the pain
Shame.
I have failed.
A little alcohol
That substance
That cure-all
Stomachache reliever
Stomachache causer.

How would it feel to have the consequences of partaking in its poisonous demeaner without swallowing one drop?
Don't talk so loud.
It hurts.
My ears are on fire, they burn with each word
A vernacular flood pounding on the inside of my skull like a pre-teen punk rocker who thinks he can play drums.
He's got no rhythm.

Darling? Can't you speak a little softer?
I understand that it's important but the lesser the volume the lesser the pain.
Don't stress each syllable like a Shakespearean sonnet
I'm not deaf, I'm sick.

I'm sick.

Does anyone see?
Oh no, you can't. It lives inside of me.
It's like a baby kangaroo.
Or a knot in a stomach.
Or guilt.

Or alcohol.
Seaping through my bloodstream.
Causing casualties.

My body aches.
I refrain

A little pill to take it all away.