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Cross My WristsCross my wrists and hope to die,
I will only ever lie
When you ask me if I’m fine
Or if I like this life of mine.
If I had a gun,
I’d put it to my head
And turn bouncy blonde,
Into ruby red.
You want me to stop cutting;
I’ll stop when I’m dead.
The last time I’ll cut
Will be the last thing I see
When I finally put an end to me.
Dying sounds good right now,
Just fading into black
And never coming back
To the agony living brings.
Perhaps you’ll find me hanging,
Or after OD’ing;
Someday soon you’ll find me,
It’s too late now,
I’m too far gone.
Now I’m just a ghost
Of who could’ve been someone.
birdlike bonesit's like you
wrapped your fingers
around my throat
and then had
the nerve to ask me
the writer's diseasemy conversations become
blurs of i-miss-you's
littered on the cold floor of empty promises.
you deserve something more than
silhouettes of words, casting shadows onto my heart
filling it with tricks of light
that try to hide away the darkness.
sit down and stay for a while--
except i'm going to go
because i never learned how to keep
the beautiful things
for more than a little at a time;
i'm left chain smoking words like cigarettes
one word after the other after the other,
exhaling them all with my cancer
and my thick, black lungs.
and they say a cigarette takes seven minutes
from your life--
yet these words take memories from mine,
stripping me bare of the way you said my name
or the way you touched my face
i read you poetry in the dark, once
fingers curled around wrists and hips
breathing words onto your lips as if i could
keep you, as if i could wrap you up
in the network of stars that made up your eyes
and get you to stay
but you could never stay
and we both know it isn't something
RegretOnce, you were my everything.
I was blinded by my need.
How could it have ever worked,
When we could never touch?
You were my fantasy,
My dream love.
I still don’t understand why
It had to end the way it did.
Our beautiful love
Splintered into thousands of nightmares.
I know I was the one to break it off,
But I’ll always regret we changed so much.
Why did you drive me away?
Did I mean so little to you?
Or could it be I dreamed you into being?
All I have now are muddled memories,
And more missing pieces…
imaginemy vacant fingers miss
the press of yours
even if it was only
in my mind
that we were
you were mine, there
floating happily through
eyes squeezed shut
because you were
right there with me
but now you're not.
are pressing into
the dips of her spine
and it's not
you said you wanted to
always make me happy
all you did was
make me cry.
AubadeBecause sometimes you realize it's dawn,
and your heart aches for someone.
Your fingers tremble too hard
and your tongue feels swollen in your mouth.
Lips press against the pillow case that used to
carry her scent, used to hold the warm
indent that meant another body was there with you.
The indent is gone, left stale,
like too-old coffee sitting out on the
Hands used itch for something to hold, but something
isn't cutting it anymore.
You need someone, you realize.
It gets lonely on your own.
It's like forgetting how to write, forgetting how
to breathe, like
watching yourself fall apart,
unable to do a damn thing.
Lonely songs bleed out fragmented memories,
ripped raw and broken from your throat as if maybe
thinking about it could bring them back.
As if maybe music could save you,
could give you cold toes pressed against the
backs of your knees at midnight.
Sometimes you realize it's dawn,
and your heart aches for someone.
Daddy, am I pretty?Daddy, am I pretty?
"Daddy, daddy look at me!"
She laughed and twirled around
Dressed up in her dress-up clothes.
Daddy didn't make a sound.
"Daddy, daddy look at me."
She told him once again.
"Daddy, am I pretty?"
Asked she, feeling empty within.
"Yes." said daddy flatly
Though look he never did.
She ripped off all the clothes,
Ran to her room and hid.
Daddy never came
To ever see if she was fine.
In her floor she laid.
All she could do was cry.
Daddy didn't love her;
She knew that in her heart.
It's not right for a five year old
To feel broken, torn apart.
Although too many years have passed
The story's still the same.
I called only when I needed him
But daddy never came.
Now my dreams are haunted
With that broken little girl
And her horrid misconception of
The best daddy in the world.
The Broken Things InsidePoor child, you have no idea what's in store.
You spend your childhood feigning adulthood,
Watching your mother smile with her ruby-red lips,
your father reading the paper and drinking his coffee,
thinking it's so wonderful, so fabulous,
you want to be just like them,
but you are unaware of the woman your father has on the side,
how your mother cries every night,
biting at her lips to keep quiet and that they're
not red from the makeup.
You have no idea of the broken spirits that
walk around with empty eyes,
I'm fine, they lie, often enough that it's believed.
'Fine' is now warped,
sitting on the stool of words that mean
please, please save me.
The shiny life of adulthood is an untruth.
Poor child, I have no way of sparing you this pain,
for my heart's already dead.
[ Time kills hearts,
it's inevitable. ]
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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