fingers flirt with the flames
of a feeling I don’t understand.
lighter fluid coats my hand and
I don’t bother to wash it off.
tears begin when my parents yell
because twenty years of
abuse, alcohol, and neglected anxiety
takes its toll on the adult mind.
‘i’m over it,’ i say as i drink
my second beer of the day
at nine in the morning.
i light a cigarette and
catch on fire and hope
my parents forgive me enough
to realize not everything is my fault.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 8:16 PM UTC
my net worth is three sheets
of crumpled paper and
an empty shot glass.
i am not pretending to be
anything refined, sophisticated,
worth your time.
i’ve ruined the best things in my life
without even realizing it, absence the
only clue; there was no bother to tell me.
i am left with flaws but i am not sure
what they are because I’m too
much of a liability to be told.
there are empty matchboxes strewn
all upon my cluttered mattress
with holes burnt into it.
i have a tin lunch box full of
dead lighters; six years worth.
i never throw them away.
my bad habits exist in
every flameless flick.
will you increase my net worth
by leaving a pack of Marlboros in
my mailbox? i might not be deserving
of an explanation, but it would be
a nice peace offering. if you add
a lighter to the mix, i’ll make sure
the amethyst fades and you
no longer dream of me.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 7:45 PM UTC
no love, no oxygen,
no memories.
peaceful memories will
soon greet me, shielding me
from pain, from the world.
let me go. let me go.
am i here for your
amusement? do you
find it funny that i’m
choking out words
with blood on my arms?
go to hell
and i’ll see you there.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
my shoes are caked
with brown mud and
my arms have new burns.
getting high alone in the woods
is fine until the paranoia sets is
and the trees i love on lsd
become my hated enemies.
i find a book of matches on
the ground, twenty minutes
after my lighter died.
they are wet and do not light.
the cigarette between my lips
dangles there, before falling
into the mud i trudge through.
i use my own name in vain
and try to pretend that
losing my lucky isn’t unlucky.
Jan 6, 2018
Jan 6, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
yesterday i got blood on my jeans
from opening the scrape on my knee
i got three days ago, slipping in the shower,
drunk as hell before noon.
my dad told me to leave the rest of his beer
after i took five in twenty four hours.
i wonder if he realizes how bad i am.
i have to have at least one drink
before i see anyone, just to loosen up.
i drink throughout the day,
not caring what time i start.
my boy expressed concern
about all my empty beer cans.
i decided six hours ago
i would take a break from drinking
but my friend gave me a jelly jar of *****
and i keep telling her i’ll stop, as i pour another.
“i’m going to not drink for two weeks,”
i say as my speech begins to slur.
how many will be my ‘last drink?’
will i make it two weeks?
will i care? does it ******* matter?
there will always be new blood on my jeans.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 10:39 PM UTC
I call suicide hotlines in my dreams
and hope I'll still have the numbers
memorized when I wake.
I never say how bad I am
in those dreams because
911 is just three clicks away.
I don't tell them about the blood
dripping down my tattooed arms -
scars tell stories but not ones I want to tell.
I tell the operator that I'm "upset"
as I play pyramid solitaire
with a new notch in my suicide bed post.
When I awake I don't have
the courage to dial the numbers
and my cries echo in my foggy room.
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
i’ve written this so many
different times, usually scrawled
in half fading ink, blood droplets
scattered. this time, for the first time,
i am writing it addressed to You.
you left months ago, left without
a closing goodbye. you left three days
after i last tried; i didn’t even bother
writing anything then. i barely had
the energy to even hold the metal
much less explain my disdain
for the life i have always lived.
my room still reeks of cigarettes
and i wonder if you’ve quit.
i only chainsmoke when i’m
falling back in love with all
the danger, discounting how
unfairly i was treated.
i want to know how many times
you’ve lied to me, because
i watched you wiggle your
way out of glue traps that
were sure to ensnare you.
i am writing this because
i think people deserve closure,
not to leave without a word
or explanation. my reason is
simple: i have no interest
in life. i have no connection
to the world anymore.
i have no connection to
my emotions anymore.
don’t blame yourself
but don’t flatter yourself either.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
i swore i’d stop writing about you
three poems ago. i swore i’d stop
hurting myself but i’m bleeding again.
i swore i’d move on and not look back
but i almost called you last night.
i never swore i’d delete your number.
where did you go?
what drove you away from
late nights smoking in my room?
you’d always play my guitar.
but only knew the beginnings
to most songs; i still
tried to sing along.
i’ve been drinking again and
it’s not your fault. *** washes
away the scars you left and
keeps me from thinking
about all the flaws you
could have been running from.
i’m hanging up this line for good.
Nov 22, 2017
Nov 22, 2017 at 10:38 AM UTC
i toy with the idea of
buying a bus ticket to
somewhere on the west coast
to a place i would be new to
to a place where i could be
as invisible as i like
i don’t know what
is stopping me from
being a burlesque dancer in
Portland but I keep spending
my money on cigarettes and
**** and all i do is
smoke and cry and love
and i need to get out
of this house that has become
such a miserable place to be
such a miserable place to live
but when it comes down to
it i’m more likely to
**** myself than flee
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC
waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 7:12 PM UTC