A first kiss is a deadly weapon
ours was nervous and in secret
a large dog making me sneeze
jumping over the SUV
because your stepdad can't park
and clinging to you
because he also can't drive
When you met my parents
on New Years, pictionary
we both yelled "anarchy"
and I will never not smile about that

I swallowed 36 pills today and just laid down ready to die.
You told me my sadness was beautiful... Like a flower drowning in the rain.

I laughed... Because all 36 pills were evenly counted out for the things that made me feel this way.

1. For the headaches, the nightmares and the lack of sleep.
2 for the memories of you kissing me.
3 for the heartache, the way I watched you walk off with her under your arm.
4 for the screaming, the fighting over my weight each day.
5 for the way my family just never understood the way I didn't wanna talk about my feelings.
6. For the long nights I cried myself to sleep for being so ugly no one would want me.
7. For the days I didn't think I would survive at work with a mental breakdown.
8. And last but not least, for the way I could never make myself stop worrying about everything. The way I couldn't figure out my future. The way i couldn't stop hating my entire existence.

36 pills hand counted and evenly distributed down the back of my throat.

Do you still think sadness is beautiful?

I woke up with a splitting headache,
I may drink too much but my parents dont need to know that.
I had to forget that wretched evening and it was my only way out.
My reflection was a dissapointment,
as always.
There were no letters with my adress and no messages with my name.
I was starting to act like my father,
it was unavoidable, I know.
But a part of me had no desire in a broken future,
I had cut a sliver of daydreams,
child's play.
But this was reality I was facing.
It wasn't facing,
more like nodding in agreement.
I had no fight left in me.
Nothing to lose.  
Nothing to gain.

Im now falling asleep at my desk,
adjusting for a new day ahead.
We're all adjusting, but no one is actually comfortable.
My arms are spotted with bruises
as the bottle settles my dreary mind.
I dont know how long I can perform this act.
Re-runs aren't appreciated anyway.
So why dont you take me off the air.
Or perhaps,
just shatter me into pieces
on the blood stained
kitchen floor.

I must choose
Between my father's happiness
                     and mine.
Knowing all is in good cause
But lifting a finger to say
Just cause I've been raised
By this man,
In this house,
On this bridge,
For connections of heart,
I have to
Am expected to
Make the same decision?

They make sponges of young
Take advantage
And force them to believe
Make them go to church
Of the same religion
that befalls
of their parents.
etc.

But I am a free heart
destined to make my
own choice
My mother saved me
from this prison,
This brainwashing
So I will defend my right.
I see the looks of
dissapointment.
But in my mother's eyes
there is triumph.

Then I fall back to:

"You are my last chance
of not being a failure
as a father."

Poetry has become my self harm,
I only write at my lows...
Instead of blood I see words,
Instead of a blade I have a keyboard...

I want to write about...
The wind dancing with the sea...
Or...
The way you smile and it lights up your innocent face...

I don't want poetry to be my self harm,
Because poetry is beautiful...
An art...
Not.
Just.
Blood.
And.
Scars.