This is me writing your eulogy:
I hope I'm doing this right... I'm sick of hearing "I'm sorry for your loss." Maybe a "Congrats," would fit this occasion. You're safer, and happier. So am I(?) Please know that it's okay that you buried me behind doors and pill bottles. You were (are) sweet and soft and home to me. Too many times I buried myself in your skin. You'll forever be my favorite home I lived in. I'm still hushed up by your unrequited apologies and agonized cried. You're still singing in my head forever. I kind of feel like I've gone through the worst heartbreak ever because you're still humming on my fingertips and I'm pretending I don't hear a thing.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC
White shirts,
Chicken nuggets,
Kisses your brother,
Writes to your mother,
Reeks of stale cologne,
Always misplaces his keys.
Laughs like rain,
Fixes his tie,
Melts into your skin,
Drown in his eyes,
Golden as the sun,
Bitter as the night.
Drinks too much,
Watches you cry,
Ties knots in your hair,
Screams like dad,
Mismatches his socks,
Kisses you goodnight.
***** his teeth,
Rolls his eyes,
Corrects my typos,
Sleeps inconsistently,
Drives in reverse,
Cracks eggs with one hand.
Writes you poems,
Plays you guitar,
Traces your spine,
Kisses relentlessly,
Unzips your soul,
Keeps himself in a jar.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 11:39 PM UTC
I used to be scared of what hid under my bedsheets,
hid in the shadows of my closet.
I've come to find that I am what is hiding under the sheets.
(hiding from what?)
I am the shadows in my closet.
Yes, I write about sad because I am sad.
I AM SO ******* SAD.
STOP telling me HOW TO FEEL,
HOW TO ACT,
WHAT TO SAY,
AND HOW TO SEE THE WORLD.
I'm caught behind my silence because I don't know how to tell you
everyone is screaming at me
and they just won't stop
and I can't seem to differentiate between your crying and my own.
All I can see is broken glass.
I hit the wall so many ******* times
holding a bottle,
holding a ****
holding a heart.
There's shattered glass everywhere.
No wonder my feet are bleeding.
"Your voice is so quiet."
"Speak up, please."
I'm screaming your name and you won't turn the **** around.
Was it something I said?
Or didn't say.
Do we want to hid in closets
or under piles of blankets
because that's the only place I feel warmth anymore.
That's the only place I feel safe
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Sometimes I sit in the bathtub in my basement and play with a calibre. It's always loaded. I like to un-cock and **** it because I like the sound it makes.
I also like to put it between my teeth because when the metal hits my teeth, it rings.
Feeling so close to the hand of death is sort of comforting to me. It's irrelevant to the fact that I'd much rather you be the one stuffing that gun in my mouth, than have myself do it.
I guess I give you too many privileges.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:01 AM UTC
Sometimes I really like to hear you cry.
I like how raw and deep your voice sounds when you talk in your sleep.
I like the way you lick the blood off the floor after you stabbed that baby.
I like how you paint roses black and dip them in blood.
Sometimes you make me feel like less of a little girl and more like a psychopath. I really like that.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 1:57 AM UTC
I guess I don't love perfect hair,
And I guess I don't love painted nails.
I love messy buns,
And chipped nail polish.
I love how her hips sway when she walks,
Or how she tries her hardest to make me fall in love with her body
When I'm too busy trying to put to words how her eyes have a summer breeze inside of them,
And how the sun is in her smile,
Or the music in her voice.
"She's like a Lana Del Rey Song:
Beautiful, deep, and once it gets stuck in your head - you can't get it out."
I also think I could never captivate her essence with merely words.
I've spent these past few days alone,
Trying to capture the universe in a jar.
I want her to see how I see her:
So much mystery, and beauty in such a small containment.
And since I've been alone,
I've gotten three hickeys from a boy I didn't know,
I got in motorcycle accident,
and I stole two-hundred fifty dollars from her parents wallet when I went downstairs after she fell asleep.
"If she's the deep end of the pool, I'm standing in 3 feet of chlorine. If she's drowning, I'm not doing anything to stop her."
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
Not only is it 3 a.m,
It is also the time when I remember you left me.
3 a.m is also the time when the alcohol loses it's taste,
And your words begin to occupy my mind.
The sweet 'I love you's' and the 'I don't think this is working anymore.'
3 a.m is when I think about how you used to close your eyes, and lay your body next to mine.
It is also the time when I think about how happy and bright your eyes are;
How sharp and white your teeth are.
3 a.m is when I need you the most,
Because my heart is heavy with the burden of wanting what I cannot have.
Which is you.
It always will be you.
3 a.m is dried up tears, crumpled papers, ***** on my breath, smoke filled rooms, and finally beginning to feel your absence.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
This life I'm living isn't the one I ever wanted to be living.
I never wanted to be beaten by my dad when I was only six.
I didn't want him to leave when I was seven.
I didn't want my mom staying up for three days at a time, smelling like sweat and ***
I didn't want to see my mom in the hospital after my dad did God-knows-what to her.
I never wanted my Grandpa to get sick.
I never wanted my Grandpa to leave us either, but he did.
I didn't want my mom to get cancer.
I never wanted her to scream at me when I was depressed.
I didn't know how else to communicate; all I knew was anger.
I never wanted to take a razor to my wrist or try to overdose on those sleeping pills.
I never wanted to cry alone every night.
I never wanted to not be able to stop lying.
I never wanted to make all those people up.
I never wanted to make my mom cry the night before she died.
I never wanted to talk to my walls, and ask if anyone was listening or if anyone cared.
I didn't want to not feel safe anywhere, not even in my dreams.
I didn't want my hands to go numb when I got sad.
I never wanted to down too many shots after I tried my best.
I never wanted to feel like I didn't belong.
I didn't want to hear my mom's voice when I was falling asleep.
I didn't want to have the only voice that would talk to me be my own.
I didn't want to have to think about what I said before I said it.
I never wanted to fall in love with five different boys's eyes that were all brown.
I never wanted to watch my mom cry as she pulled all her hair out.
I didn't want to cry for three days after he told me he didn't love me anymore.
I never wanted to not be able to say the right things; I could only write them.
I never wanted to have to sleep in the middle of my bed because the edge reminded me of my mom laying dead on the floor.
I never wanted to be scared of heights until he got me high off the look in his eyes when he told me he loved me.
I didn't want to be drowned by the thoughts that crawled into my mind at night. I never wanted to hate what I saw in the mirror.
I never wanted to cry over my mom's dead body.
I never wanted to feel like this.
I didn't want to live this life I'm living, so I guess this is my suicide note to whoever finds me dead first.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 9:30 PM UTC
The flowers,
The wooden casket.
The goodbyes,
The tear-stained bed sheets.
They never knew he'd fall dead
Behind a cocked gun.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:15 PM UTC
I have dreams of caressing your face,
And it's cold,
And it's dead.
But I'm more alive than ever
And I'm standing on your grave
Waiting for you to rise up
Out of the hollow earth you lay in.
The way you'd laugh and wave
Every time my sad heart
Would pass your lively, beautiful soul.
My love for your dead body
Is no less than the love I felt for your beating heart.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 5:01 PM UTC