Little one, lost and vacant,
Let me put your heart at ease.
I have been within this void ||
   For far longer than thee.

Innocent, drawn and quartered,
Let me sew those pieces back.
I have seen within this void ||
   Old grey slivers sown black.

---
by Aleksander Mielnikow

I wish I told you
how beautiful you were,
dancing alone.

And not just pretty,
though that you sure
were too, and I’m kicking
myself for not having
that courage either.

But your beauty was
one of strength,
a resolve within
yourself that you
are all you need.

I don’t mind being alone,
and I’m often more
secure in my
own little den.

But when I’m not
alone I can’t be alone.

May I borrow your strength?

I wish I told you
how beautiful you were,
dancing alone.

But maybe it’s best
I left it.

Left that impression
seared into my skull,
of you swaying in
your own embrace.

I’m glad we shared a smile,
before you carried on
into your own self,
while I lost mine
on a floor of misfits.

We were making love.

And when we finished,
you stuck your head
under those blue covers
and told me to come
for you. And I came
and penetrated your
fortress and canoodled
your chest as you
planted pecks on my
forehead. Then we
rested, and I told
you of the next best
thing on television
and you told me of
the book you were
reading. We talked of
the news though that
changed quickly. And
you mentioned the
first time you made
out with someone was
with a foreign exchange
student named Klaus
at a homecoming game.

You looked into my
eyes with your bright
limes and asked, “Do
you remember the first
time we kissed?” And
I could not recollect
and you giggled and
said, “Oh, don’t bother,
just forget it.” I
regret I still can’t
recall. But ever since
that November, that
car crash in the fall,
I remember that day.

I remember the way our
stinky, moist bodies
melted and molded
together under those
blue covers, and I
remember what I knew
of you. And after my
tears dry, and I have
swiped the dust, I
admire the night
through the window.

I can still smell you
on my pillows, and I
hold on to your warmth.

Your warmth.

A mist blanketed the forest,
so low and dense we could barely see
through it, but we kept on digging
the hole. We had no other choice,
and there was nowhere else to go.

The onyx lake pebbly beach
intimate boat cheap beer
and jokes loud motor running

The smell of earth and petrichor
dispersed her rancid miasma.
I felt ruefully relieved, but
the hole was almost complete.
Tiny eyes peered at us through
the dark, through the leaves,
from the trees, but not a chirp
or tweet was aired. They remained
silent as we did our deed.

The wet street we came in on
truck cabin nail gun hidden
in the cooler her stupidly
wonderful laugh
awful moonlight

It was finished. We climbed out,
and I grasped her ankles. We
swung her and let go. The wind
passed through with a low groan.

Burble gracious grin
looking up at the stars
snap yelp the start of a cry
another snap of air escaping
swollen tongue
widened eyes

The putrid miasma disappeared,
buried along with everything
else. And then we left. The sun
crept out from behind the
mountains as we walked away.
The birds began their daily dance.

TRIGGER WARNING: CONTENT PERTAINS TO DEPRESSION AND SUICIDE

Little demons bounce around in
your skull, screaming obscenities
and those same old revelations.
All the while, the strange sounds of
"you're fine," "you're nice," "you're not that bad,"
"you’re not evil,” gets replayed out
of their mouths again. As if they
know your sins. That never-ending
winter you are freezing in. If
only they knew, but you’ll never
tell them. You'd die first. And more and
more that looks like the optimal
choice. Your demise a voice for this
injustice, finally putting
down that mad dog robbing all of
them of a peaceful existence.
Why should such a savage exist?
So you can spread your disgusting
penitence with warm and oh so
bold and colorful poetics?
Why not just end it? Instead you
feed it like the coward you are,
the typical evil piece of
**** that rips up hearts and leaves them
to the wolves. And no one knows, and
no one will care, if you are not
the same as you were back then. This
redemption is an illusion
you fool around with to cool your
intemperance, as useless as
your pathetic attempts at some
rehabilitation, and if
you were honest you'd accept that
your suffering is warranted.
So go meet your end, you *******
sick depressing ****, before you
get selfish again and ruin
another beautiful person.

Took a chance today, and dipped my toe into a
place I never dare to go. I failed. I had hoped
that that would be a nice, happy ending, seeming
tragic yet blessed with the lessons of backbone and
persistence. It’s not. It can never be. Because
I will never let it. All it is is just some
more ammunition for my machine gun head, to
tear me to shreds. Because no matter how much the
intellectual can spot the good ol’ practice-
makes-perfect motif (the idea that because
I at least tried I have made my mark in the right
direction, the clichéd, mythologized concept
that somehow I’m closer to the end of this ****),
my ****** up brain has been meticulously trained
to remind me: I failed, because I fail. I fail.
And every failure is another nail in my
coffin. A coffin that deserves a shallow grave.