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No
I said no when my doctor asked me if I had suicidal thoughts
Cause for me it's never been like it is in films

I've never pictured it as a circle of blood around the drain hole

It's not a dramatic shot of my feet kicking off a stool a struggle and silence

It's not a freeing pose into the wind

It's not a collection of words to express my apology for the last time

It's not an artistic shot of 50 pills out of the bottle

It's always looked like walking out
A mundane, anti climactic, boring image
It feels tedious because it's been a routine for months
There's a difference between dying and committing suicide
You die long before you commit suicide
The truth was
I knew everyone I ever met
Was going to leave
Or ruin me
Somehow
One way or another..

I just wanted to find
One person
That was actually
Worth it.

But sometimes
Hearts are black
And promises are empty.

I just needed someone
That would pull me away
When I tried to jump
Off the cliffs in my head.

I just needed someone
That made the bruises sting
A little less
Than before
And someone who
Wouldn't dare give up
On me so easily.

Someone who
Knew why my blood ran thick
And my tears ran cold

Someone who
Didn't cut up my lungs
When I breathed in their name.

Someone new.
Because we both know.
It was never you.
What is this, behind this veil, is it ugly, is it beautiful?
It is shimmering, has it *******, has it edges?

I am sure it is unique, I am sure it is what I want.
When I am quiet at my cooking I feel it looking, I feel it thinking

'Is this the one I am too appear for,
Is this the elect one, the one with black eye-pits and a scar?

Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus,
Adhering to rules, to rules, to rules.

Is this the one for the annunciation?
My god, what a laugh!'

But it shimmers, it does not stop, and I think it wants me.
I would not mind if it were bones, or a pearl button.

I do not want much of a present, anyway, this year.
After all I am alive only by accident.

I would have killed myself gladly that time any possible way.
Now there are these veils, shimmering like curtains,

The diaphanous satins of a January window
White as babies' bedding and glittering with dead breath. O ivory!

It must be a tusk there, a ghost column.
Can you not see I do not mind what it is.

Can you not give it to me?
Do not be ashamed--I do not mind if it is small.

Do not be mean, I am ready for enormity.
Let us sit down to it, one on either side, admiring the gleam,

The glaze, the mirrory variety of it.
Let us eat our last supper at it, like a hospital plate.

I know why you will not give it to me,
You are terrified

The world will go up in a shriek, and your head with it,
Bossed, brazen, an antique shield,

A marvel to your great-grandchildren.
Do not be afraid, it is not so.

I will only take it and go aside quietly.
You will not even hear me opening it, no paper crackle,

No falling ribbons, no scream at the end.
I do not think you credit me with this discretion.

If you only knew how the veils were killing my days.
To you they are only transparencies, clear air.

But my god, the clouds are like cotton.
Armies of them. They are carbon monoxide.

Sweetly, sweetly I breathe in,
Filling my veins with invisibles, with the million

Probable motes that tick the years off my life.
You are silver-suited for the occasion. O adding machine-----

Is it impossible for you to let something go and have it go whole?
Must you stamp each piece purple,

Must you **** what you can?
There is one thing I want today, and only you can give it to me.

It stands at my window, big as the sky.
It breathes from my sheets, the cold dead center

Where split lives congeal and stiffen to history.
Let it not come by the mail, finger by finger.

Let it not come by word of mouth, I should be sixty
By the time the whole of it was delivered, and to numb to use it.

Only let down the veil, the veil, the veil.
If it were death

I would admire the deep gravity of it, its timeless eyes.
I would know you were serious.

There would be a nobility then, there would be a birthday.
And the knife not carve, but enter

Pure and clean as the cry of a baby,
And the universe slide from my side.
Remember the time, when we sat on a bench
and you spoke with such eloquence;
I got scared

Remember that time, when we danced in your basement
and you kept stepping on my feet;
there was no music

Remember the time, when I laid my head on your lap
and you were so tired that day;
you made me cry

Remember the time, when you kept punching the door of your room
I was just outside shouting;
we made love that day

Remember the time, when I threw things at you
I slapped and clawed you;
you said "I love you"

Remember the day, when you said you were tired
I begged you to take me back;
you didn't

Remember all those times, because I never will
I may not deserve you, you may not deserve me
but those memories are worth remembering
I will take the knife you put in my back when I wasn’t looking
And push it through my flesh till it graces my heart
And nicks it just enough for the pain to come flooding out
Then I’ll paint you a portrait
Red with pain
And wrap it up with a bow on top
Because I would never forget your birthday
Or to congratulate you
As you grow one step closer to death
Because that is something that's actually worth celebrating
I know I'm clingy, I latch on like a starfish, but at least I'm not a stingray, I won't strike when you least expect it, my only motive is to love you and it's the farthest thing from hidden. Maybe that's the problem. I tried to be a little more quite, shelter my thoughts so you wouldn't take off running but what I need from you is a roof over my head, cause I can't provoide it for myself when my words are protecting you like an umbrella during a rain storm. I've always loved you in waves and lately everyday has been a hurricane. But as I bite my tongue I find that my heart is cracking like the ground severs in the middle of a drought. I can not swim against the current and you are uncertain, and unsteady like the Nile River. Eighty percent of our bodies are made up of water, it's about time you let the flood gates down and opened your mouth.
-Kahla Mercadante
There are a lot of things wrong..
With the way you make me feel
You make me feel like I'm taking acid
I start to feel dizzy and like I'm shooting over the clouds
Because you called me cute...

But then you take 96 hours, 27 minutes and 34 seconds to reply to a text message or phone call I left to you

I worry. And that acid trip starts to plummet and I feel like I am falling

Extremely fast. And the second I'm about to hit the ground. You're suddenly back.

And I am planted softly on the ground

In a daze. But then you're gone again.

Then. 5 months, 2 weeks, 7 hours, 52 minutes, and 8 seconds later. You finally start talking to me again.


Apologizing for breaking my heart.
For literally taking my heart and squeezing it. With the blood oozing out and my heart deflating and it literally feels like my heart has been seized out of my chest into the palm of your hand but some how I can literally feel you hurt my heart

And that very pain sends electric shocks to my brain. And I'm blacked out mentally until you "apologize"

And the dopamine in my body starts to spike and I trick myself into thinking. "Yes. It's all going back to normal, we aren't crazy" "we aren't crazy"

Yes we are

You make me feel like I will die without you. If I can't have your existence present to me. I am literally a bomb full of depression. Ready to implode into myself at any given moment.

You crush my desires into fine dust and set them in a line and snort them so you can watch me crumble to nothingness. You take my happiness with a needle and shoot it through your own veins. You take my love and put it in empty pill capsules and pop them whenever you're lonely. And you literally leave me with nothing but sadness.    

You literally abuse me like I'm some sort of drug machine. Whenever you need it. I've seem to always have it.

There are a lot of things wrong with the way you make me feel.

But what is really wrong, and disturbing..

I still love every. Single. Piece of you.
mum asks
why you show your poems to strangers
but not to me?


mum doesn't know
poetry is light
but it can also be darkness
sometimes it is mostly darkness
and poetry is history
and experiences
and things you want to happen
and things you don't want to see

poetry isn't always
chocolate-filled with a coat of sugar
it isn't always pretty metaphors
and nice descriptions of nice feelings

mum doesn't know
my poems can turn a little darker
twisted just like my mind

and she doesn't know
the way I love
or the way I hate
and she would surely ask
and she would surely know who and why and what
and strangers don't know
who the hell I am talking about
and they don't care
as long as they read a good piece

mum asks

I don't reply.
Well, mum hasn't asked... yet. Most of my friends actually did.
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