I'm not quite sure what did it...
It could have been watching
Mother being beaten
or knowing Father was the one giving the beatings.
It may have been
when it was my turn
for the beatings.
It may have been the first time
I experienced the futility
of existing
here and now,
there and then.
It could have been
the first time I felt an
irrational fear of
climbing under the porch
with all the spiders and dark places,
or the subsequent shame imposed on me
because my little sister was
the one who
saved the stuck kitten.
It might have been the time
I rammed that same sister's head
into the side of the stove
and then threatened retaliation
if she told on me.
It may have been
thinking as a child
I was destined for
mediocrity, even though
I knew I was
born
to be great...
II.
Knee deep in thick muck,
******* and fuckery,
we trudge on and on
and through it all....
III.
Everyone is dying.
Some, quicker than others.
I'm going to
ride this out
for a while...
IV.
Hi
Hey, you look cute
Fat. You look ******* fat poured into that stupid dress. You are not seventeen anymore lady, jesus!*
...
V.
I can hear you breathing while doing yoga;
a slow inhale, pause, controlled exhale.
Your body is a....
VI.
Another ten hour shift
with the crew of ******* *******.
If I wasn't the boss
I'd have cracked some
****** heads
wide open
by now.
These ******* don't
know ****...
VII.
My plants need watering, wilting next to grandmas paintings...
VIII.
So, you think you know me...
VIIII.
Spare parts.
Lots of folks out
there made from spare parts.
Pieces that almost fit.
My knees were laying
around out back somewhere;
they were beaten into place.
They got most of the dimensions
right but the joints are tight...
X.
It takes two weeks for your kisses to reach me,
and two seconds for my blood to fill the empty spaces...
XI.
Wait...just wait. Don't go.
I was only kidding. ****...
XII.
Light. Bouncing all over the place.
Light.
Reflected into you...
XIII.
These giant guardians on the boulevard,
My friends, these tremendous sycamores, have been keeping watch my entire life.
They tried warning me...
XIV.
Two years later and your taste is gone but your smells still linger in the dark folds of memory...
XV.
This is going to be offensive to most.
Inappropriate? Some might say.
I wouldn't...
XVI.
These so called poems from
these so called poets about
cutting yourself and suicide really
can wear a guy out.
My tendency towards empathy and
compassion, tested daily, wears incredibly thin.
I've been there, not my thing, this cutting.
I'd rather burn flesh.
We've all got our thing right?
Except self harm isn't my thing.
Not a thing I do,
just a thing I did.
I wonder if these tortured
souls make it through the
next hour after reading
one after another cry for help.
I wonder if some do it just
for shock value, some just to goad
their creators.
I wonder if I am reading a poem or a
suicide letter.
It's unnerving.
I'm all for suicide; I suggest everyone try it
at least once.
Just quit with the incessant
*******...
XVII.
Cut my throat and leave me to the jackals for
I would rather drown in desert sand
than submit to the will of anyone
I do not
trust...
XVIII.
****** clamps, lead weights.
Paddles, restraints...
XVIIII.
I sat alone,
from nowhere a warm, blue light surrounded me.
**.
Balancing these monkeys on my back with the demons in my mind and...
21.
I smell ******* a mile away *******,
and you stink.
I see you shuckin' and jivin',
be-boppin' around like you are some kind of
badass...
22.
And now there are no flowers on the table and no long, dark hairs on my pillow...
It all makes sense to me...