warning: suicide, graphic descriptions

"I forgive you for what you did not do."
Anne Sexton

    The sterility will crush me. The whiteness will **** in through my nose and ears and consume me when the room implodes, if it could. But it cannot. I wrote to tell you it is so lonely desolate and so cold. There are people here but they are as lost in death as they were in life. All the jumpers go to rooms where they are eternally falling all the squashers go to the crushing room where walls like the southbound 1 train during rush hour kiss constantly and the ribs are broken, contorted put together again and there is no clean up crew that isn't getting paid enough for this and no cynical commuter fathers telling their children they are sorry they were late but there was a suicide at the 66st stop.

    The drowners live in a soggy blue haze where they gasp for air and the pill takers have it easy. They always have a stomachache nothing more; and they faint over and over again giving them rest what they wanted anyways. I wanted to let you know you have probably walked into my room and seen the stupid polite carrion of myself. I trust you have read my note and I trust you have told your parents screaming on the phone and this isnt happening.

     I trust you've delayed to call the paramedics and ended up calling them 20 minutes later than you should because you knew I was dead- the cold paste of my wrist was just too true blue and it reminds you of that ring you got me when we were young and said it promised something.

    We listened to I Left My Heart in San Francisco that night in my suburban American Craftsman. Neither of us have ever been but I liked the line about being left alone in Manhattan because that's how I felt often I never told you this once I got there though. You've combed my hair that you always said reminded you of gold-leaf and you've punched out the wall because you said some stuff or maybe didn't that one time and you're ****** about it. The neighbors have heard your keening and wondered what is going on.

   You've stiffened my collar so as to hide the marks and put my body down but nothing will hide the marks even long after my body attempts to rot but can't by way of embalming as I sleep in the graveyard I told my mother I wished to be buried in when I was 15.

   The victims of garrote are constantly choking and our necks break constantly. Our throats gasp but we cannot get air. To get into heaven I must make my peace with the life I had on earth. But I will not. I  wish I had not thrown out my pills.

7/30/2016

everytime I open my eyes
in the mornings or late afternoons
i begin to writhe in anger and contort
and my blood is roiling and I swear
I look at my pink skin I can see it steaming and foaming and I am manic again and ready to ruin some relationships again,
and I am awake again.
And when I wake up alive I feel the world has failed me
a little more every day

-

the volcano in my abdomen
erupts every time you are away
it keeps bursting, flowing
the liquid is warm, I feel cold
my chronic emptiness keeps being filled
with more void, more vacuum
I feel huge

Epilogue


you
only live
within my letters

hundreds
handwritten
unreplied

i
only live
when you say my name

blue
pseudonyms
reminds you of another

this
is no present
meaningless words

kept us alive
in each other's houses
no address

left
only a grave
two, i guess

7/22/2016

yesterday
a buck moon
the pregnant off white rock
hanging heavy in the sky
everything on the ground painted luminous and grey
i accidentally scratch my self,
draw blood above my lip
the brilliant garnet roiling down my chin
leaving a sickle shaped scar with a story to tell
the velvet pushes through the skin,
growing off the skull
for competition and for ***
and we laugh together hahahaha just like humans
but it isn't really the case
and the human skull is so ugly itself
once all the skin has rotted away and melted
into loam
my buck moon will come
one day

xvii.

my dear neurosurgeon
failed to find my eyes,
he only looked
at my mouth, my
left jaw,
whine a little,
and gave me analgesic - i f

orgot what's the na
me - that replaced my f
ace with the mo
on. it's moon face. still

present until this very moment
just because my body wants to
remember. i
maintain my diet like there's
no tomorrow but actually there is &
boy did it
grace my stomach with a

crying gift, an angel's tears,
an angel lives near the volcano
everything turns sour.

i wasn't hurting at that time.

now i am. turning not only
my face to the moon, my whole body
is the moon, even my
fingers are the moon
but they are the crater part so
when i touch a boy he

disappears - when i
touch a girl i disappear.
i've never wanted to be a boy,

only some nights
i am so fragile i become masculine.
it's not that i've never felt
feminine, i do, every time

i am catcalled i do, every
time my father kisses me like a jewel
i do, every time my brother
treats me like a marionette
i do, every time i'm seen as angry i swear i do.

my mother is angry all the time but
that doesn't do anything about
her womanhood - her husband
still sees her as a good, and yes, the eyes
of a man
are like the sun, nothing at all
like mine.
my eyes are the only part of me
that is not the moon, that is pluto.

i've been to so many doctors
i am very sure it's not
the minds nor the medicines.

it's funny
that

my dear neurosurgeon
didn't even graze my skin -
the only time a knife
tore my epidermis open

it was a slim box cutter.

i've been to so many doctors,
i am very sure.

in the middle of july
i dream of red poppies
it comes out from my baby hole
it's not forming a line
anymore
like one day in april 2015
23:13 i drew a bridge
swamped with lil red poppies
not long enough to reach
the wrist
of my left hand