Red rope lies on the floor
Contemplating, pondering, should I?
Maybe if life were just a bit more
And water didn't run knee-high

So this is what it felt like
For the others as they linger
Oh, but can'st thou call a sike
As the water reaches fingers

The door, glued shut with crimson liquids
Quivers like the thoughts and the doubts
Desperately, impatiently attempt to rid
The water rising to the snout

Red rope hangs on the ceiling.

It's okay,
I laugh at me, too.

It started out with the handheld scissors
that were once used
to rip the tag off my pretty pink ballerina dress

I then picked out
the sharp edges of glass
that blanketed the photograph
keeping my dearest father alive

The tacks on my walls
from the silly band posters had worked for a while

Until it became no other obligation
than the razor
that was once sold in the store
of a lady who had no idea in the slightest
that she was selling a young girl
a ****** weapon.

I suppose you
are much like a staple gun;
for you can
hold me together

and yet I
could be compared to a
pair of rusty scissors;
destined to tear thee apart

I t h i n k a b o u t y o u
m o r e t h a n m y t h e r a p i s t s a i d I s h o u l d .

God,
(I'm not praying, I'm mourning)
It is exactly 1:04 in the morning
and 37 seconds
and I can't even ******* sleep
and there is no one that I can talk to who understands me
because the people that do,
stopped caring when I started trying. . .
I'm writing this here on this piece of paper or computer screen
(whichever you choose)
because I ******* miss you.
And I know that you would yell at me if you heard that word
come out of my mouth
but I would rather you yell
than not say nothing at all. . .
****, ****, ******
You're still not yelling so that means you must
really be gone. . .
It's 1:09 now, dad
and 17 seconds
and I have school tomorrow
but I can't sleep because you always ******* haunt my thoughts
and I used to think that I wanted to **** myself
because I thought I could be with you when I die
cause you said we could meet again in heaven,
you remember that, right?
Sure you do, that was one of your
last ****** days on this earth
But now that I don't believe in heaven
or hell
or maybe even God,
what have I got to die for?
In fact, what the hell do I even have to live for?
You're so ******* gone and
it ******* hurts
and maybe it makes me a ****** poet to write
so many curse words in a poem.
You would scold me if you read this.
But you can't read this,
and you're not scolding me
and you're not even ******* here anymore.
You're just gone,
and *God,
I need you to hug me and tell me it's all okay
and call me your little girl one last time
and let me see you ******* wasted
off your knockers one last time
and let me come home to find you broke into our house again
and let me listen to you yell at my mother
once more. . .
God, maybe this makes me a bad person
but I would take anything just to have you back.
I ******* miss you. . .
and no matter how hard I try
I can not put down in words the immense
seering pain that I have felt.
It's 1:17 a.m
and who ******* cares about the seconds.