B. Diehl

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Xanax & Chocolate

​When the clock’s hands strangle
the honeymoon phase, I’ll remember today.

When the laughter turns to crying
and we glare more than screw ––
when the passion starts to shrivel
in a drought of lust, I’ll remember today.

When this quiet bedroom becomes
a full-blown warzone
and our hearts are fighting to the death ––
when flower-vases shatter upon
peeling-paint walls, I’ll remember today.

I’ll remember today ––
your hand on my chest, your Xanax tongue
against the roof of my mouth. Today:
before “darling” and “baby” are replaced
with “asshole” and “douchebag.”
Before a light caress turns
into a close-fisted punch. Before my knees
are bruised from begging you to stay.
Today: before our chocolate charisma
melts in the poison sun. Before the thorns
grow bigger than the head of the rose.

Today, you are far from gone.
Your eyes are loyal dogs. They do not
wander. They’re fixed on me
as though I’m made of something pure.

But even as you’re perched
on my bed with that firecracker grin,
and the past and the future simmer
in the dreamy heat from the present ––
and even as you lean in for another kiss
while everything around us
runs like fresh paint
on the hottest day of the year,

I think you should know
that I already miss you.
​

Speed Dial

​You used to be first on my speed dial list.

You said I could call you on nights
when the devil on my shoulder
dressed the angel in flames ––
when he stuck his pitchfork
in my ear, twisted my brain
until I forgot how to feel and so I
pressed lit cigarettes into my wrist.

Whenever I called, the hum
of your voice would cradle
my screaming-infant heart;
it would remove the edge
before I could swan-dive right off
of it, crashing straight through
the rotted ceiling
of a run-down psychiatric ward.

You used to be first on my speed dial list,

and I was yours as well. You’d turn
to me when your dad got drunk
and the liquor kicked holes
in the walls. You said you could
never smile again after he burnt
your teeth in the fireplace ––
family photos reduced
to black smoke. And that was
the evening I could hear him through
the phone, punching the door
of the empty refrigerator (as if
it wasn’t his fault he traded
the food stamps for booze). And
the saddest part was when your mom
called 911: the first number
on her own speed dial list.

That night, I came to get you.
I had forgotten to take
my antidepressant that day,
and the pessimistic horses
of my mental carousel were spinning
so fast that I swerved off the road.

And we almost hit a tree but you
grabbed the wheel and saved us,
steering the car into a McDonald’s
parking lot where we ended up making
out while 3 homeless guys watched.
Public affection had never felt so right.

You used to be first on my speed dial list,

and you grinned like crazy when
I showed you because you realized
I put you in my phone
as Wonder Woman.
I wasn’t even a comic book fan.

The last hours I spent with you were
on the roof of your dad’s garage.
You were about to go off to college
in California. You wanted to be
a domestic violence counselor.

I couldn’t talk you out of leaving
when it made so much sense.
I couldn’t even bring myself to try.

So we just sat there together
through dusk and twilight, waiting
for the morning clouds. Uninspired
but not alone, we then watched
those clouds –– those cloud-shaped
clouds –– and my hands shook
like departing freight trains
even though I was the one staying.

You used to be first on my speed dial list,

now I don’t even
have your number.
​

​B. Diehl's profile

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Helium

When I heard the news,
it hit me like fire ––

melting flesh from my ears,
cremating friendships.

It couldn’t have been fate
when control of your vehicle was lost.

It couldn’t have been fate
when you veered off of the highway,

when you were pronounced dead at the scene--

death by impact with a living tree.
Fate doesn’t play

with devilish ironies.
Fate is not that cruel.

Right now, to say that
“God works in mysterious ways”
would be an insult to God.

There was no divinity hidden
in the twisted steel,
the smoking branches.

This was not meant to happen.
The world will never sleep again.

I’m taking the airbags out of my car,
pumping them full of helium,

letting them go, watching them
transcend this black cloud of mourning.

I know it’s too late to save you,
but it will always be too early to forget.
​

Cherry Perfume

​In my hand is a to-do list with nothing crossed out.
I feel anxious, yet sluggish ––
like I want to get up, but can’t.
I think my OCD and Major Depressive Disorder
are in a boxing match or something.

There is a throbbing
on the right side of my brain.

Across my bedroom,
I see the cactus you got me last month.
The cactus is dying now.

I don’t water it anymore.

I don’t do anything anymore.
​

Humans

​You'll find them sacred, holy,
and blameless. They'll build walls
inside your brain to keep out the facts.
Their malice will be invisible
beneath wooden-toothed smirks ––
bleached feet and hands.

They'll take you out of your original
packaging, cover your body with nicks
and dings. They'll smash your whole
world with a sociopathic sledgehammer.
You'll never see it coming.

Look for the white bandages on
their knuckles. Wait for the fast kisses ––
fast kisses like fast food leaving you
with a sobbing stomach. Even if they
love you, their souls are wolves.
They'll claw through your abdomen,
tangle your entrails, watch entertained
while the blood soaks their fur.

When they perch themselves
like gargoyles on the foot of your bed,
do not fall asleep. Do not be a fool
for their puppy eyes. They aren't real.
Look closer. There are no tears.

These creatures will raid your fridge,
your wallet, your car, your spirit. They’ll
brush their teeth with your plasma, wipe
their asses with your richest art. They’ll
get in bed with your friends and screw
their minds right out of their skulls.

They’ll put your cat in the microwave
and masturbate to your tears. They’ll
craft crowns out of your flesh and place
them upon their heads while they
retire to their greed-colored thrones.

They want to feel powerful.
They want to extract your self-esteem
with unsterilized tools –– make you
call them “master” while you polish
their shoes. They want to tell you
you’re wrong for having self-respect.

The one thing to remember is that
naivety is a cancer. It will ransack
and pollute your vital organs.
Trust is always phase one of a war.

But humans like to feed on the hearts
of others. So consider yourself saved

if yours
is already poisoned.

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