spero

Change rings alarm bells in my pocket as I walk you home.
Alerts me, says, remember, this is how such things are grown.

Can I trust this heart,
this foolish ugly organ,
playing pretty all the wrong notes
to have finally learnt the score?

To have at last exhausted
this desire for disaster?

his

"you are my sweetest downfall",
"you're my favorite mistake",
what a pity that, like these words,
you aren't mine to take.

x

about heroes

How come all the right lines
come all at the wrong time?
The words stream down my face now,
making the perfect sense that I intended from the start.

And now it’s their turn;
Faces, staring back at me from all directions,
asking me why I can’t make them better.
And they scream.

And they yell and they tell me
that I’m as fucking bad as them.
And I am
and I am
and I’m worse.
And each hearse belongs to my sad selfish body,

because I could never
save anyone but me.

That is not a hero.

That is not a person.

I am undeserving of myself,
of even these clichéd, self-centered words.

I have always been sorry.

But that is, I am, never even close to enough.