Take me up to Maine, up to Nanny and Grandpa's house.  Take me out to their dock at the bottom of their sloping back yard with its perfectly manicured glass, down the aluminum walkway that's too steep for Grandpa to walk down anymore at high tide.  Take me to the dark-stained, thickly varnished wooden planks that we fished off of at dawn and went boating from at lunch and here we dangled our toes in the salty ocean before dinner.  Take me there to die.
                But not yet.
Wait till the summer, when monarch butterflies alight upon the hollow railings that you always tell me not to hang off of.  Wait till the end of June, when the heat of summer is such that garden snakes sun themselves on the rocks that lazy waves sidle up to in the gentlest of breezes.
                And when we get there, wait for me to be ready.
Let me undress and show you the bones that will, by then, stick out from me at every angle.  Let me show you the lines that you thought were from the cats in the fading light of a Thursday sunset (because Thursday is my night) and let me show you that you were wrong about me.
                  Tie a heave chain 'round my waist.  I promise that I will be thin so it doesn't take much length, and you'll want to cinch it tight like the belt you say I wear wrong so it doesn't slip off.  Weigh me down with the skillets that are never clean enough.  Padlock to the metal links the books that were my escape till you took them; I won't care now if they get ruined.
                 There we will stand, eye to eye, as orange sunlight contrasts with the elegant starlight as the night is revealed to us.
I will set my glasses down far away from the water's edge lest they fall off and be lost forever in the tangles of seaweed swaying softly beneath our feet.  Then, for the last time, pick me up.  You will see, then, how I've faded to nothing against your ever-critical gaze.  For the last time throw me off the dock and for the first time I do not struggle to stay dry.
                   The night I made this jump thirty-seven times on a dare and a whim, the arctic water never ceased to sting as bare skin met briny sea.  On this one occasion, this one last occasion, I will feel instead the welcoming warmth of summer that is my last season, taking me in with a comforting finality.
Collect my clothes; in a heap too untidy for you to look at will be a grimy green t-shirt and dusty old shorts.  Take my glasses too, and go home.
I'll be fine.

If I could go back there,
to that day in first grade when I yanked my project (on bridges, yellow cover decorated in crayon) too fast from Allison's hands and her fingers blistered on the staples,
I would be standing there,
next to Miss A as she lined up the class,
ready with a band aid and a hug and I would say, "Be more careful next time, alright?" and Allison and I would get yelled at for skipping in the hallway to art class,
the moment of shock dissipating from my mind like so many accidents of the year.

If I could go back there,
to that night in April of eighth grade where I learned what true poetry was,
I would be there at ten twenty-four,
and I would wake the dead to keep myself from typing those fateful lines if I had to,
and I would save myself from skewing the feather-light foundation of our group of five
that later was heaped with bricks at odd angles
which came tumbling down.

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade began (whether it was Monday morning or Monday night I forget),
I would give myself a Mountain Dew and say, "He's fine, but go for her,"
and then as I ran down the b
to the day in fifth grade when I realized no one was laughing with me,
the day that I realized I was an outcast, and that "being different" wasn't good,
I would be waiting with my pink-haired baby sitter as I stepped off the school bus,
a Lilly Quench book in hand and a mug of hot chocolate (even though it was March) in the other,
and I would pull from my pocket the same necklace I was wearing,
a wire-wrapped amethyst on a crumby silvery chain
that was the first of many,
and there would be acceptance in the house that night.

If I could go back there,
to the moment I learned about eating disorders in health class from an over weight gym teacher who couldn't care less about the students,
I would bump the kid next to me from his seat (let him whine, he's a ****) and sit down,
a plate of chocolate cake and a spoon to eat it with making a mess of the plastic desk,
and maybe I would realize that I was already skinny enough.

If I could go back there,
to those nights when I learned the true power of words,
to the moment I skewed the foundations of a solid friendship of five,
I'd shout and scream and wake the dead to stop myself typing those fateful lines,
heaping bricks upon bricks to collapse my only bonds,
and I would give myself a mug of Theraflu to knock me out,
and whisper in my ear as I nodded off, "Stop being so **** impulsive."

If I could go back there,
to the last Monday before 9th grade started (whether it was the Monday morning or Monday night I never recall),
to the night where I should have closed my laptop for good when Joanne signed off but instead I reopened it at 12:17,
I would give myself a bottle of water and tell myself, "He's fine, but go anyway"
because it meant the world to Allison that I do so,
and as I ran out of the house in the opposite direction of our suicidal friend to meet up with her,
I would head toward's his house and tell him we were coming so he could be awake and his dad asleep when we showed up at the door at 2:23.

If I could go back there,
to March 19, 2012,
when I learned about life from Death himself,
when I learned that some things are worth living for and that isolationism doesn't work but it will have to work for me,
I would stand there at the foot of my bed,
freezing cold because I refused to turn on the heat,
I would hold my hand and be supportive because now I know that no one else will be,
that no one can be there for everyone always,
and I would stay with me for the months to come and relive the hellish months to come because no one should have to hold the world up alone,
knowing that they can't even maintain a grip on themselves.

If I could go back there,
I would save myself.

Please stop apologizing
every time you say something
and the reaction is not immediately what you expected.
Sorry is a stupid word
and doesn't fix anything.
All it does is show us that you meant to say that
and meant for us to know what you meant.

We're all depressed,
a bit insane (especially you),
close to death (especially me),
and trying to not be (Ok, maybe only she is).
Jump away to your fantasy world
or stay here and let me think
or do what I do and put on an act for the good of the order.

But rust and Ruin stop saying sorry
when I like the track you're on
but it's too harsh for you to put to message
though you did so anyway.
Things are not alright;
they never are and no one expects them to be
so we may as well ask
what's the ****** point?