I keep this bottle of pills, filled up to the brim. And I leave them on my nightstand.
I keep the small container without stealing any
Even when my head is throbbing so hard, I can hear my pulse deep inside my ears.
But I keep them; so if I ever want to taste them all in one setting,
The option is there.
I don’t plan to take these pills. I just have them; just in case.
Because you can’t plan death, you can’t sit down one night and say, “I, want, to, die.”
It doesn’t work like that, depression isn’t that simple.
It’s not an impulsive act or feeling; it’s a build down.
And I say build down because it sure as hell doesn’t make you feel good about yourself.
It piles in your head, like dirty laundry that’s been there for days and sits around the floor,
Because you can’t get out of bed.
It adds up, like miles on that old car that seems to cost a fortune every week but you can’t afford a new one.
Because if you could, maybe you’d leave your pillow and see the world,
Like a cross country road trip, pushing pins into a board, marking all of the spots in the world you want to stop and see.
But if my arm were a highway, and these straight lines my tourist spots, my blade would be my car.
It’s not a Cadillac or an SUV. It’s been used,
Back when I actually gave a fuck about what I looked like.
I don’t cut slashes in my wrist anymore
As if I was a four year old erasing the white ink from her canvas, coloring with a silver crayon.
And I may be lying when I say,
I don’t have a razor blade hidden within the drawer.
Because I keep that thin, shiny piece of metal that pulls so easily against flesh,
Maybe someday I don’t want to relapse and start over.
I want to succeed.
But that isn’t something I can plan.
A dark dark blue overcomes gazing sight,
As a blue, tinge of black, blanket covering you,
Concealing all that's real, and it defeats all light,
To fend the soap of your skin,
And to blight the harmless lively solar sight.
It comes softly, the night,
A bitter cold to make things sweet,
The blue muddies deeper and deeper black,
It is overtaken by shade,
And makes all things dim in midnight gloom.
The fade comforts you though,
Relieving senses, melting worries, soothing temper,
And challenging thoughts edged in
A deep and mournful life:
A heretic, monster, evil to the world.
But lives, as yours, were
Just dirty grains of sand changed to glass
Neglected, and gone to last.
You'll never know the dark
As it has when it made you then: happy.
So please, take a step,
Make a move and love the darker hue,
Relax as the dark does for you,
Worry for the worried, but not your own,
That is for me and the dark to do.
She was a very kind girl. She was there for me throughout my divorce. A month before Alyssa left I was drunk and on Facebook. I thought I recognized Crystal from somewhere but couldn't remember exactly, so I added her as a friend. I was too far gone to really hold a conversation but I remember exactly what I said, "I'm skittles too drunk to be talking to a beautiful girl like you."
The month passed, Alyssa left, and my devastated mind grew insane. Once to the point where I was crying in misery on my bed, sleepless, starved, and desperate. So desperate I turned to God. Something happened in that moment I can't explain. I prayed and felt a peace wash over me. Was it real or just a sleepless mind? I think I'll be asking myself that for the rest of my life.
During that time I wrote again for the first time in years. Picking up pen in the form of thumbs and I spilled blame, cursed my name, I painted myself a demon on Facebook for all friends and family to see. Crystal commented on my post with encouraging words, this perfect stranger. In loneliness, and desperate for someone who understood I messaged her. She had been separated from her husband for two months. She was walking me through the emotions, the rocky path of loneliness, and letting me know I wasn't alone. I was not alone.
We did some harmless online flirting as was my custom from too many hours typing and not enough staring a girl in the eye. She sent me pictures and in return I wrote her poetry. I think I fell in love with her too quickly and "in love" isn't quite right. I just knew for a fact that she was something to be revered. I wasn't nearly over Alyssa, still not to this day, as sad as that might seem. Crystal freed me from feeling guilty about writing, lusting, and loving someone else. It's one of the reasons I fell.
After one month of constantly talking, day to day, hour to hour, and minute blended into minute. Becoming acquainted with a beauty I had never met and a beauty in a way I never knew before. One night she finally agreed to have me over. I had no idea what to expect and I think she had a much different plan. Something submerged in lust, and likely to end up touched. I wish I had been in a different place because she dropped her lighter multiple time just waiting for me to smack her ass. Just waiting for me to be that escape she wanted, and needed. I hadn't hit rock bottom just yet, for that was to come later, but I was still a mess. I think I shaved but only because I didn't want to look like a complete ass. I remember grabbing a bottle of Seagram's Vodka cause she refused to tell me what she wanted to drink. I've come to understand that she's a lot like me in that aspect. It doesn't really matter, it does the job. I knew she had kids, but had no idea what that would mean. I don't think I saw them once that night and that thought haunts me.
That night I could tell she was going crazy. The house still a mess and her clothes dirty. A smudge across her face that I dared not say anything about. It was shocking because the only girl I knew was painted in beautiful pictures on Facebook and scantly clad teasers, texted on lonely nights, a lovely body devoid of attention. I wasn't nearly prepared for this encounter and thank god she's as forgiving as she is. The women I've been used to are abrupt and opinionated. She is but she was shy with her eyes and would rather be turned away to speak. She was anxious and distraught. I know now the situation of men, alcohol, and frustration. A heart breaking story of rape and the terror of being a girl coming back into the dating scene after so long being out.
Her soul is attracted to unsavory types, to bad men, with unkind intentions. She was as unprepared for me as I her. That night she told me a lie. That she was sick and scared she was going to die. I had my reasons to disbelieve but I find it best to trust until proven otherwise. She played the sickly mother so I bought it and I cried. I had only just met her but she meant so much to me. I had barely any friends, cut off from life and family by an self conscious ex who complained if she had to go out. So I clung to her as a newly found relationship, as a human connection which therefor made me human. I am barely human if at all.
To all the motherfuckers who don't
Know what is and isn't important
For their own damn good.
A dirty, rigid, spiked, smelly
One finger salute for each
And every one of you.
This motherfucker throws his kids
Out into the streets in November.
Big man of the house who trys so
Desperately to be intimidating,
With a shitty back and a
Horrible stench of alcohol on his breath.
This motherfucker who thinks she's special.
The stuck up bitch that too closely
Resembles a plump fuckin carrot.
Who thinks the perfect guy is a hairless
Fruity smelling mommy's boy pussy
With perfect flippy hair and a big dick.
This motherfucker, the few, the proud,
The fruity smelling mommy's boy pussy
Who wouldn't know a pair of pliers
If they were ripping off his sparkly earrings.
Never having an ounce of dirt on his hands,
But at least she... I mean he has nice teeth.
This motherfucker that can't tell one honest
Fact about his "hard and lonely" home life.
The one who nods and laughs but just wants to fuck.
Who beats off to his computer after taking a hit
That he bummed off his rich friends.
Who is confused as to why some people (me) hate him.
This motherfucker who screws with the emotions
Of one of the best guys ever to glide through her life.
Who throws him on a roller coaster with smiles
And flirtatious giggling while she lets him kiss her.
Then throws him to the side and takes the next in line.
I wish only the very best for you, you fuckin bitch.
Those motherfuckers who abuse, torment
Or play with someone who just wishes the best.
The ones who hurt the vulnerable
To feel better for themselves.
No one deserves the shit you give,
Except each and every one of you.
Honorable mention to those bitches
That complain about all men being the same
When in reality they're just searching for
The same type of meat headed retard
Every time they have such a painful terrible
Breakup. Just shut the fuck up. For real.
As I wake up on a cold park bench
With pebbles being thrown at me
My clothes are torn and I smell a stench
Of alcohol reeking from me
As I rub my icy blue hands
Over my hungover face and dark eyes
I wince as I try to stand
I double over and muffle a cry
What is she doing?
I hear the dirty whispers of passer-byes
With sideway glances and pursed lips
As if I was deaf and blind
To my worn out clothes and rips
When's the time?
Asked the barista at 9 a.m.
"Living on the streets for months"
"Come on, you don't give a damn"
And I know he's smiling with smug triumph
What can I do?
I heard an old lady say from the corner shop
I smiled: "maybe a time machine would do
Or a job or a home or for the prices to drop
But you're too kind, I don't want to bother you"
So what is there to do
And what is the point
Of questions I can't answer
And people that disappoint?
Look at me, drunk and homeless
Who here did I not anger?
And look at them, fulfilled and blessed
Who's the obvious winner?
Could you ever shamelessly answer?
Hey guess what Chuck?
I'm horny as fuck.
Oh that's not your name?
Well ain't that a shame.
Cause Chuck or not,
I'm pretty distraught.
I need a big ol' cock,
And a man who's good at dirty talk.
I need a man who likes big tits,
Who can suck them and give them twists.
I need a great pounding,
One that's tight and surrounding.
I need someone to make me moan and groan,
I need to be taken as your own.
I want to feel you in me deep,
Till our juices begin to seep.
I wanna fuck for hours nonstop,
I wanna be the girl on top.
I want you to worship me,
Tell me you never wanna go free.
Tell me we'll make love forever,
Whenever and however.
She's not even in the choir,
Why does Mrs.------- even let her sing?
God, her voice is awful.
She's so ugly.
She doesn't deserve to have a solo.
Your drawings suck.
I hate art.
You can't write.
It's all little kid stuff to me.
She has no fashion sense.
Why is she such a slob?
She looks gross.
Eww, she's dirty.
That's who you like?!
You have awful taste!
Why would you like him?!
How do you feel,
Knowing that you're why
What did I do wrong?
I'll never know.
All I know is that you
Apparently don't think I
Am good enough.
White shoelaces tied carefully,
clothes ironed straight,
not a strand of hair in his face,
private school and Christian home.
His momma packed him PB&J.
She said, "Son, don't hang with the wrong kind of kids,
the ones sitting in the back of the classroom
who wear words on their necks and
black every Sunday."
And she puts a napkin in his lunchbox and reminds him
to wash his hands.
And she prays for him to find cleanliness,
and she checks the internet history every day
while he finishes homework and practices piano.
She tells him, "Son, don't let those celebrities
with their drugs and their dirty words
And she emphasizes "man shall not lie with man"
and not "God loves all His children"
and tells him not to let any mud get on his new socks.
He sits on the couch and
he sits in the audience and
he's told what isn't okay.
He is raised following predjudices he doesn't agree to,
stereotypes engraved deep in his brain to the core.
He was never taught any different,
he was never educated on differences.
He knows a million shades of white but God forbid he touch a blade of glass.
He was taught to keep his window locked,
Momma says, "Son, better keep yourself clean,"
but she touches him with dirty hands
and ties a rope
he never wanted
around his neck.
Pounding the pavement
Looking into blank faces
Talking to brick walls
Looking for a diamond in the rough
only to find a pitch black cave of angry coal
chiseling away at the grime and sometimes
It smears onto me
It seems the impossible task
To make something so dirty shine so bright
Like a needle in the haystack, a collection
Of stolen goods
Trying to play Robin Hood
are we as black on the inside
As we seem on the outside?
Chisel and break and peel away
The black alone to reveal what's true
Bringing out the best in us
Is all we aim to do
The priest thumbed ash on Sister Scholastica’s forehead, his thumb firm like that of Francis whom she thought she loved once. Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris, the priest whispered. Her mind translated the words her father use to relate often in his foul moods, remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return; then he’d beat her for some misdemeanour she’d forgotten from days before. The dirty ash made her feel as if she was marked out again, that her father would come rushing through the church doors, grab her with his mighty arm and beat, and beat. The priest had a lean face; eyes deep as if they had been set back too far. His lips slits in his paleness. She moved back to her place in the choir stalls; knelt down sensing the first day of Lent biting at her stomach already; the days ahead and hunger; the mark seemed to burn; she wanted to rub it off as she did as a child once and her mother said she would be damned. Her mother used charcoal to draw; once drew the Crucified in such detail that it made her cry. In her lucid days, she would paint for hours, before the madness swung her back and forth in and out of sanity like a pendulum. Through the slits of her fingers, she watched Sister Cecilia kneel as if stabbed in the back; the eyes glaring at the cross; the hands tight together in tormented praise. She’d seen her once, kiss the statue of the Virgin in the cloister, and whisper words. Faith in words; faith in words. Sister Scholastica heard the bell sound, rose, and stared at the priest at the altar. Mass. Bread and wine. Body and blood. Broken and spilt. Francis had not loved her as he said, just in it for the copulation and the image of her on his arms to impress his friends. Wednesday. It had been a Wednesday when they copulated the first time back in her youth; the grimy bed, which she remembered, had the smell of cigarettes and beer and days of being unmade. She lifted her eyes to the Crucified. His arms outstretched to embrace the world; his head to one side as if listening to her every thought and whispered word. Repentez-vous et le péché pas plus, Sister Gabrielle had said once when she was a girl at school, regret and sin no more, she’d repeated to them in her broken English. Innocent days. Mother swinging from lucidity to madness like the censer boat the altar boy swung at mass. Sister Scholastica closed her eyes. Her father raged in her memory at her mother’s growing madness; her mother painting red across the bedroom door; cursing her husband in French at the top of her voice. Peace now. Lent has begun. Sackcloth and ashes. Sin on sin. Washed away with the blood. Monthly bleeds; the blood of the Lamb. Requiem in pace.