THE CLOSET MYSTIC

This is no longer art,

I need help.

This is no longer art,

I am hurting.

This is no longer art, I am bleeding.

I need the love I never got,

I need the hand I never held.

I need help.

I need a lot of things,

But most importantly,

I may need to die.

I may need to die because I never lived.

This isn’t art, this isn’t a poem. I am going to die. 

If you see this, reach out, I need it — 

My heart needs two to continue beating.

I fear the time I have is limited,

Dust in the wind,

Sparse, and fleeting.

I’m ready to give myself away

To present my neck

To let the vampires begin their feeding

To sustain themselves on my mortal bleeding

Anyone but me should have this lifeblood

Maybe they can put it to good use —

But I cannot.

I was born to die young

For the weight 

of my mental state

Cannot be sustained 

Now I am youthful, vital

The Herculean task can be managed

But as my posture wilts

I fear so too will my will

I lived a life of pretending

No, I never lived. 

All I know is blackness

Black in my veins

Tar in my heart

Every smile feigned

All laughter pained

And you

You

What are you?

I only know you by feeling

For I am blind

I am deaf

I cannot register you 

with any other sense

Than that of my heart

And there I know you.

Nothing else matters

Other than that one sense

And I am sorry

That I sought to know you

In any other way.

Because in doing so

I forgot you

I forgot me

I forgot goodness

I forgot daytime

I forgot fresh air

I forgot the hummingbirds

I forgot butterflies dancing on the wind

I forgot

But now I remember

Now I remember.

This is no longer art