to those who've given up on love

I think I've given up on love;
I've no need left to look above.
I'll look forward instead--
or back, or below--
but I'll never find myself in the eyes
of the unreal.

For there are two realities, and two only:
the world of the dreaming present,
and the world of no consequence.

And the drowning serpents are swimming in both
pools. Your reputation precedes nothing, least
of all yourself-- shortcomings and comeuppance
and all.

You're
twisting
in the wind,
writhing
in the fire of my abject,
whoring stare; my black gaze
bores spiteful, nightful
black spores
into your tepid brain;
from the skin of your hands, your neck,
spring sores.

By the skin of my teeth I've
escaped unscathed
(i: unscalded by your eyes)--
and as I come wrathing down upon wanton smiles
and complacent haze
and concurrent opposites, blithe mannerisms--
you quiver, but without the warning

sign
of anticipation. I

can not wait for you to show up at my door,
yet
there is a voice
(he calls himself Logic-- the drunk bastard)
who tells me that He
(meaning You, meaning You, my Darling)
is never coming.

And my Laughter grows saltier
over the passing hours, as
I begin to think the voice
(Logic-- confident fucker)
is right.

My laughter is drowning in sobs.

Yet you reappear; every time-- and only just
a little farther away, this time
and this time
and this.

But I can still reach you;
I can still save you;
I can still get you;
I can still have you-- until
I decide to throw myself away again, until
this skin has
(once again)
grown far too thin, far too small--
and I: far too slimy, far too
forever too far away.

From Here; from Me;
from You;
from truth and all the lies you've proposed,
from truth
and all the lies I've exposed;

my head's been lying to me--
I'm not sad; I'm happy.

Love comes not from the World,
but comes from the world Within.