On What There Is

(Or What There May Be:
Existence and Other Things)

I'd like to return my ticket.
Not most respectfully, however:
(and prepare yourself,
or don't, on second thought,
I quite enjoy the shock factor)
I'd rather spit on it
or shred it to a million pieces
or burn it
right before your eyes.

It has been months since
I shed a tear over anything,
yet now the tears flow easily
for a man I have never met,
for the pain of his family,
for the pain of a friend.

And this gift you call life
is really a weight on one's shoulders
and a shackle to this earth
and I cannot for the life of me
think of a single one who deserves it.

Maybe this is why I self-destruct:
It is the only way I know how
to throw this gift back in your face.

And to all of you with an agenda:
I will simply deny you.
Keep your agenda to yourself,
I will take no part.
I do not want to be saved.
Pitied.
Pursued.
I cannot even say that
I want to be healed.
I will not be wooed
and I will not be won over,
by those of you with agenda.

I laugh easily about my darkness,
this is a warning to you.
Keep your distance.

I am not who you imagine me to be.

Know this:
you are playing with fire.
And perhaps I pride myself on this fact:
that I am something of a pyromaniac.
This I say to myself
as I take yet another from my pocket
and light the flame.

I've wasted so much time
washing clothes
that will be dirtied in days.
It seems an outright denial
of my humanity,
and the simple state of things.
I'm sick of playing your game.
This plan of yours was either ill-conceived
or conceived with this intention.
Either way, I want none of it.

Perhaps all I desire is truth,
but I don't think that I'm strong enough for it.
(For there is no peace to be had,
no comfort, no satisfaction,
only suffering.)

I'm overcome with a nausea from which there is no relief.
I burn with passionate restlessness.
I'm beginning to doubt that there are valid answers.
I don't know that I believe a kiss will suffice.