What You Can't See
Gnashing at the edges
of the heart,
of the question,
you want to eat.
Yet it doesn’t
satisfy the hunger
lashing at your soul.
Even if you chew hard.
I mean, really bite down,
tear your teeth into it -
primal, violent,
viciously animal.
Not even if you snarl.
Yes, yes, you are wild.
You beast, you.
But still, I see you.
Everywhere you hide,
I still see you.
You ask again
and again,
How do you know that?
I can’t answer.
(although I do)
I nibble around
the edges of the answer.
You might as well ask,
How do you know
I have brown hair?
Because I have eyes?
Because I see?
There is no mystery.
I’m not a mystic,
I’ve just been given these
damned poet’s eyes
that see through masks.
I’m not magic,
I’ve just opened these
sadist’s eyes
to drink in your pain.
I love an unhappy ending.
Unrequited love.
Heartbreak.
Self-destruction.
And, baby, you’re a fucking tragedy.



I know quite a few people who bah-humbug Christmas (or to be more inclusive: “the holidays”) because of it’s consumeristic overtones. 





