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Maple Mathers Feb 2016
My daily activities range between avoiding most things
to avoiding all things.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
4.3k · Feb 2016
Maple Mathers Feb 2016

Here and there, you called my name
For this is what you christened me
“Maple is a hurricane.”
Here and there you called my name.
Face to face, you’ll ascertain
That this is not the truth, you’ll see
I’m not a ******* hurricane
For this is what you christened me.


Hear, and where you called my name –
Abyss is what you christened me.
Oh, “Maple is a hurricane!
Said puppeteer’s overt reframe.
Braced and faced, they’ll ascertain
That this just YOUR truth – decreed
You sought a ******* hurricane
Within YOURSELF; yet, christened ME.**

(You IDIOTS Can't STOP Your Hurricane
Ready or not, here I come).

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Just a Game. . .

In the comfortable stockade of my mind
Hide and seek cannot be won
Tip­toe away and find a hollow,
The solitary spot
Slipping between turmoil
Festering in alcoves
Always waiting; back tensed,
Adrenalin sheathing the silence
If I remain undetected
Perhaps the seeker will ease off,
Forget the ollie ollie in comfree
Leave me stowed away.
Much later, I could creep into safety
Call a truce, change spots...
Yet unmarred, the same old rules;
Vicious whispers that ask of unknown.
Meaningful glances and gritted teeth,
The shock of lush green eyes chasing down memory lane.
Wake up, Maple. Wake up.
But I wouldn’t, and it didn’t matter.
Because the stabbing whispers would continue inside;
Dueling emotions I long ago left at bay.
Reside there, waiting.

*Ready or not,
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
Maple Mathers May 2016

Dear Mother and Father,*

        I spoke with Ali today. Maybe it was the first time in years. Maybe it was the first time that we’d ever actually spoken at all. Either way. She told me some things that I thought you should know.

Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.

         Focus on this. Your white picket fence. Your barbecue, your big family dog. Your pristine, rich neighborhood. Your uppity gossip. Your rules, judgements, “charity.”

         Behind your closed doors, however, dwells something else.

         Something like hypocrisy. Something like abuse.

Now focus on this.

         Ali: dark and brooding, even as a small child. Questioning all of your family values, the ones that I had merely accepted.

         My little sister, the ultimate judge, the supreme *****.

         Forbidden black fingernails, black hair; fingernails, which you forced pink, hair that you insisted blond. Friends that you deemed “greasy” and “unsavory”.

         Hateful, teenage Ali. Ditching classes to go off with boys. Returning home with track marks and glossy eyes. Sneaking out with no destination, if only to not be at the one place she couldn’t be herself.


Now, this. That awful “it’s not to late to save your soul” camp. A reform jail. Holier than thou epithets. Squeaky clean repentance. A stockade full of higher authority telling her, “you’re wrong,” telling her, “we are going to fix you.”

         Brain washing robots with backhanded facades.

         Sad, scared Ali. It’s no wonder she chose to rebel, for all she knew of authority was hypocrisy.

         Not just you.

         Instead, a withered, sick janitor.

         The old man who brought her the food that they didn’t serve in the dinning quarters. Fresh fruit, chocolate, and cheese. Food to outweigh the everyday gruel.

         This lonely, forlorn man expecting compensation in return. ****** compensation; unimaginable and certainly ungodly acts.

         This Janitor, he would wander into Ali's room in the early hours of the morning. . . And vanish, several hours later.

        His pockets, empty. His heart, full.

         In this sick and twisted world, the janitor believed that love could exist anywhere. He believed that romantic relationships should not be constricted by something as trivial as age.

         And Ali, she had alternative motives, and compensated her innocence to reach them.

         This was, perhaps, the beginning of Ali's stark career.

         The *compensation of her soul.

         Or, perhaps, it was the man that picked her up next, as a desperate hitchhiker.

         Ali, who finagled the nun’s keys and escaped that ungodly place forever.

         Ali, who climbed into a sinister car with a pretentious man who warped her in more ways than one would even imagine.

         Penniless, solitary, and willing.

         But, think. What would you do with yourself if you had absolutely nothing and no one to lose?

         **Prostitutes, ******, what have you. They’re not born, they’re created.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

3.5k · Feb 2016
I'll Burn that Bridge
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
when I come to it.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Realistically... It's the other way around.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
3.0k · Feb 2016
Maple Mathers Feb 2016

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
2.7k · Jan 2016
AtHerAll - Afterall
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
Last class:*

Muddled mind and bleary eyed
Concentration took a fall
Find a hollow - crawl inside
Lost the pills to Now-Tow Hall

Benzos - always second choice
Wear my Kpen like a shawl
Want to whine with all my voice

This class:

**Iris in on what's inside
Orange bottle of enthrall
Guidance, I will not abide
my true love - oh adderall

Tweaking out with pupils wide
Shrink my presence, oh so small,
Temptations I will all abide
Personified a mere rag doll.
All poems original Copyright © 2015, 2016.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Two inconnu sheathed within sight of one moon
Betwixt embers'and uppers consumed by whom
Two nocturnal allies have each exhumed
By Caffeine and Adderall's swindling tomb
And Nicotine's cluches; an imbibing room

He can't spell    
I can't speak    
None bespeak    

He's got canines and relatives
To replete empty spots
Whilst a book full of lies
Keeps my soul ersatz.
So, too soon or too late
I will resume
And instigate
This nighttime bloom

For Phil Roberts

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers May 2016
I've now coined the diagnosis "Portable Hoarder" -  Carrying my life in bags and duffles, pockets and sleeves.

Accumulating more baggage than would fit in a **** terminal.

But now, I am home. Me, and my ***** laundry. And I don't fit anymore. Crammed amidst my past. Falling out the door; Spilling across my floor.

Me, myself, and Marshall.

I'm cleaning out my closet.
Everything I know I learned from Eminem.

Nobody wanted me till puberty reinvented my physicality. From peasant to princess - my life spun 180. Grade school, a prison; high school; a kingdom. And that's fun. But.

What's the lesson here?

I'm nothing to this world but my looks.
2.4k · May 2016
It's Not An Addiction
Maple Mathers May 2016

*Voices ignored

Sanity stained

Conscience aside,

2.4k · May 2016
Everyone’s Hiding
Maple Mathers May 2016
everyone’s seeking something.

Ready or not, hiding or not,
someone will always,

2.3k · May 2016
Bonnie & Bonnie
Maple Mathers May 2016
When raids of knaves
And smitten sheep
Aimed to pervade
Our hide and seek,

Beneath enclaves
We'd creep and keep
Their souls, we flayed,
To hide and TWEAK.
In Plain Sight is the Best Place to Hide
Maple Mathers May 2016
Not prison, nor killed,
But his memoir's fulfilled
He named me Ann Williams
Amidst hints he instilled.

His fact is our fiction - demurely disguised.
Bad move, Tomas Gregory
You're tied to your lies
Unwise, catalyzed

Your pathetic demise.

Gang ***** in Aspen:
The personal account of an innocent man, savaged by American injustice.*****-Aspen-personal-injustice/dp/0984940111

how bizzare; how bizzare
2.1k · Feb 2016
That Freshman
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
I need a fix
I need a line,
Boy, I don't need
Your Valentine.
I had feelings once.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
2.1k · Jan 2016
Fingers Full; Hands Empty
Maple Mathers Jan 2016

Promise after promise
Fell into my head
I carried them with me,
I took them to bed

So hopeful, I waited;
To hold your forever
Intentions negated
This jaded endeavor

Yet, lies soon took shape
And doubt would take hold
Your dormant coercion
Cementing the mold.

You never came through
You never came back
The woodchips, they faded
The bracelets, I lacked

Trapped under my instincts
My innocence, vanished
The moon was relinquished
My purity, famished

Young as I was
I’ll never forget
The impact you left me;
Your stark epithet. . .

You took something good,
You found something pure
My will cut in half
Rose white, and demure.

The root of my psyche
You’ve yet to discern,
Who plundered my childhood;
My chastity, burned.

Existence forgotten;
Defined from within
I’ll never evade you
You’re etched in my skin.

Scar after scar
Fell into my arm
Your ink swam my bloodstream
Your slander, your charm

I swindled the rabbit
And powdered my nose
Freefalling in choices
Defining your prose.

With tasty white pills,
A hand in my throat
A liver that’s grilled;
The bible I quote.

With no one on earth
To save me from me
I sampled the bottle
From under our tree.

I cannot begin
Nor pretend to describe
What happened to Maple,
Who am I inside?

The loneliest girl
In the entire world
The events I’d mistaken
The chastity; hurled

All that I know
And all that I think;
Is this monster within me
Was born in a blink

But who’d tune in now?
The opinions are set.
My mind is jay walking
The lines of regret.

The holes in my person
The doubt I can’t sever;
My husk of normalcy
Braving the weather. . .

For what you don’t know
Is what you can’t nurse
Assumptions you draw
Are making me worse.

Conclusions concocted
Your story, enhanced
My path interrupted
Dismissed by a glance.

So I’ll say goodbye;
There’s no seeds to sew
For this is my truth. . .
Confession bestowed.

Still treading his words
That flood to the brink;
Harassed, used, and left
In less than a BLINK.
To Moses,                                                           
When I was fourteen you told me
You’d never leave me.                      
Yet, it’s been twenty years;                 
My pockets are still filled    
With woodchips.                            

All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.
2.0k · May 2016
It's Not
Maple Mathers May 2016
what you're capable
of saying;

It is
what I'm capable
of believing.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
2.0k · Feb 2016
Hide & Tweak
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Parades of knaves,
And smitten sheep;
Came to pervade
OUR hide and seek...

Depraved – I caved
To strut; to seek
Tirades of graves
With CREEP antiques.

CHARADES engraved
On my physic;
Enslaved, I waved
Through gift-wrapped chic.

For Beneath enclaves,
She seeks the meek
whose souls – she'd flay,
To Hide-and-TWEAK.
All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.
2.0k · May 2016
Your Absence Began to Define
Maple Mathers May 2016
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.9k · Feb 2016
I've Been Many Things
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
. . .

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.9k · Mar 2016
Just Because She's Dead
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
Doesn't make her an
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.9k · Feb 2016
Raspberry Science Sass
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
As a footnote, I’ve always held a certain regard for those plentiful fruits. Raspberries. Small and juicy and sweet. Quick and easy.

Now, it’s apples on the other hand I heavily despise.

To eat an apple is to make a commitment. Society generally frowns upon those who eat half an apple, just to toss out the rest. And most people are not exactly bargaining for your leftovers once they’re brown and teeth marked. Apple eating is a long and rigorous ordeal. Halfway through, the raw parts begin to stain or dry and when you’re finally finished, you’ve still got to deal with that core and the skin that’s stuck in your teeth. Herein, apples and commitments become synonymous. Convenience, the antonym.

Raspberries, however, are miniature, and zesty, and only last for a matter of seconds.

**Not unlike ideal high school relationships.
An excerpt from my novel - Pretense.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
1.9k · Feb 2016
Impatient In-Patient
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
When I was six, my grandmother enrolled me in ballet class.

     This choice was the first of many attempts to negate my tomboyish nature. Perhaps, she’d hoped that instead of collecting insects and cutting apart Barbie dolls, the pirouettes and glitzy attire might spin me. I was spun, eventually, but that had nothing to do with dance.

     Blame it on my peers; blame it on the tutus. Truth be told, my time was generally spent out of sight; but I got my kicks sneaking a reptiles home, playing with dinosaurs - never dolls, or - of course - taming earwigs. Alone.

     I don’t remember the classes, or the other little girls. In fact, the sole (no pun intended) impression left behind by those dance classes was why they'd end.
It was to be my first recital. The whole class had been coaxed into flashy leotards and uncomfortable tights. We’d been instructed to skip in a single file line onto the stage, which catalyzed my predicament, as I hadn’t a clue about the routine.

     As the girl preceding me danced into view, I floundered in terror – my turn had arrived. I fumbled along in her wake, passing the curtain and reaching the stage.

     The stage!

     An arena of ruthless lights, unveiling my anonymity. I faltered in terror, registering the audience registering me. How vast the auditorium looked against my tiny body! Betrayed by those blinding stage lights, I cowered at the mercy of the whole world.

     The instructor, a faceless female, was showing whose boss as girls began skipping around me.

    And yet, there I stood. Petrified that moving forward negated any hope of escape. My proximity to the curtain merited two options... the bright side of the curtains, which would soon claim everyone else in the vicinity, or the dark. I engaged in a mental game of Tug-a-war that lasted all of about half a second.

     The dark curtains won.

     So, dodging around the obnoxious ballerinas, I descended back into safety. It mattered not where I went, as long as I put distance between myself and the audience. Distance between myself, and detection.

     At some point, I discovered a backstage crevice, in which darkness sheathed me. For, even at five, I understood dark and safety to be synonyms.

     So, I crawled inside, and I hid.

     I don’t remember who went seeking. Nor, do I know who found me. Nobody is a possibility; it was an “Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free” forfeit, perhaps. A rule that defeats the point of its own game. For at six, I was young enough to obey that “come out, come out, wherever you are” nonsense. But, such rules were dropkicked long ago.

     For, your existence – dear hide-and-seek – all but defines me. This game, that darkness, possesses my psyche.

     Some days, I ponder the uncertainty of memories. Vexed, for where memory dies, illusions are born. Illusions romanticizing reality – a reality in which I never came out, lost and unfound, a reality in which I’ll never come out, out, wherever I am. Hidden beneath the darkness.

     For, in truth, I have been hiding ever since.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

Excerpt from my novel, Pretense.
1.8k · Feb 2016
I Brought My Hangover
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
to school
with me

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.8k · May 2016
I Want Your Past
Maple Mathers May 2016
in a story,
As in,
once upon a time*,
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

Shoutout to MS Lim, who wrote this in response:

Maple Mathers May 2016
That Old Drug Checklist? Completed. No Shame. So get over it.

(It's rather colloquial, however, revealings as well. This is what I said to a boy from driver's ed who wanted to be my boyfriend... So I tried to scare him off. Hahaha. **Rationale a la 15-year-old

Maple: It's not exactly something I talk about, ever, because it just demonstrates my insanity. But, I want to try everything. Every substance, every drug.

Justin: Um, why?

Maple: Why not?

Justin: Well, cause it’s bad.

Maple: If you believe in good or bad, right or wrong. I don't know what I believe except that we're all robots of each other and nothing matters anyways.

Justin: Hmm, that’s a different way of thinking about it. I think that curiosity isn't bad, just be careful. . .

Maple: I don't know if I am, but, meh. Is there really any good reason to do anything?

Justin: Umm, no, not really. It’s what you feel, not what others feel. Well. . . just be careful.

Maple: Safety is a conspiracy.

Justin: Why do you say that?

Maple: Think about it. You can insure everything you own, walk on the right side of the road and follow strong Christian morals that give the illusion of safety, as if you’ll go to heaven if you’re good and hell if you’re bad. But, with one fire, one plane crash. . . well it's all gone. The entirety of you. And who even knows if there is that insured heaven anyways?

Justin: Hmm, you know I think that the way you think is very interesting and mostly true, I mean, nothing is ever completely safe. You can't always be careful, but I also think that you should use this and try to live life to its fullest.

Maple: Thank you. But what is living life to it's fullest? Everyone always says that, but what does it mean?

Justin: Well, like you, I know that what you’re doing is unhealthy, but your not afraid to try different things. You experience more then anyone else, cause most people play it safe in their comfort zone.

Maple: Exactly! Always judging but never trying. Society has made these things into taboos, but are they really? I know that getting addicted is a terrible idea, but everything in moderation. Why always sit on the sidelines making assumptions behind whispered hands and backs? Why not jump into the game?

Justin: Yep, that’s right. You can't sit there say that’s bad or you should do this if you haven't done it yourself. Because if you haven't, you don't know what it’s like and you’re being hypocritical.

. . .

Maple: Um. . . Says the boy who just told me not to do drugs “cause it’s bad.”
My 15-year-old mentality...

So now I'm 22, and I've done every drug within reason. . .
The verdict?
Keep your street ****.

****** and Adderall or go home *******. ;)
1.7k · May 2016
When I'm Fucked Up
Maple Mathers May 2016
That's the REAL me.
The Weeknd

Maple Mathers May 2016
Marshall is the Only Thing that Mathers: Lessons of Elementary School

When I was in third grade, I found religion.

Well. Kind of.

My older sis brought a CD home one day - "The Eminem Show" - and explained how cool - how popular, rather - it made her. This was news, as the both of us personified the textbook social pariah - we were weird, or something. And kids made sure we knew it.

"Eminem?" I wondered. "Who names themselves after candy?"

Slim Shady did, apparently. Cannibalism, at its prime.

"Duh, stupid idiot! It's spelled differently!" Scoffed my sister. She loved to remind me who was boss; she had a ball making me feel even smaller than she did (I'd assume). A talent amplified by her superior intellect, which isolates her to this day. Back then she could do as she pleased, and I'd readily adapt. She was many thing, but predominantly, she was there. And I adored her for it.

She told me everyone had or knew this music. This Eminem band.

I listened till I could recite every track, verbatim. Captivated instantly.

The very next day, I came to school, ratty and grimy looking as ever (my mother hadn't taught me any different - for, I suppose, she had looked my way but saw only herself. Thus, I frequented the principal's office those days, teacher sent me from class every morning for disrespecting the environment.

Apparently, looking homeless isn't  acceptable - even if you're 9.

Anyways. At least I got to miss class.

Nobody would play with me those days. I had just one friend for all those years. They'd kick me and spit on me, lock me out in the snow, call me Spider.

Typical grade school semantics.

However, that CD was a game changer, I anticipated. Things were different. I knew about Eminem, and since my sister's peers were obsessed, mine would soon be, too. Thus, they'd finally play with me, wouldn't they?

Those were my expectations.

But. Conclusions drawn by a 9-year-old aren't exactly conclusive, it turns out. I approached a handful of children during recess. And promptly, terrified them.

Estatic, I exclaimed, "I'm going to hell! Who's coming with me?!"

I was beaming. For a couple seconds. And then Everyone ran, screaming and crying, yelling back at me with the appropriate intonations for a sewer rat.

I didn't understand why. Baffled nobody percieved my announcement as hysterical. And brilliant.

Yet, I got what I wanted, I suppose. Invisibility negated by taboos and vulnerability; I, the Satan freak, finally became interesting. Interesting enough to be picked on, and bullied.

It was an upgrade at the time.

Though, I had yet to understand why it'd occurred; the quote was hilarious to me. God meant nothing to me - "insulting" the lord, what did that even mean?

How would I know?

Alone, again, I snuck behind a tree and wrote all the lyrics I could recall - it was all okay, cause soon, I'd be home.

And home meant Eminem. Someone I could count on to be there. No matter what.

Funny how those same kids arrived at high school, and learned what a real bully can do. Bullies who never messed with me once, and never would. It's unwise to provoke a bee, you see - especially the queen of the hive. ;)

And laugh it up, but Shady is forever my religion.
Shady is My Religion.
1.7k · Feb 2016
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
I traveled down that pathway
I leveled my demise
My nose was an express train
Aiming for the skies. . .

I headed towards the house of crust
I swallowed all that white
Disguised within a golden husk
I crumbled with delight

I lay the rabbit on the spot
I crushed it with my rock
Up the hole, into the brain
The rabbit goes to flock

I chase it deep within my mind
I’d play with it forever
It snakes and weaves around the line
My smile, the true endeavor.
Musings born betwixt the crux of addiction, and the shackles of Avoidant Personality Disorder; documented by the poster-child for both.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
“I have something for you to remember me by,” said Tim.

    He held a little foam Hippo – the lone play animal supplied by the loonybin to patients in need.

     It was brand new – just as every Hippo looked – and I wondered why he’d chosen something seemingly impersonal in comparison to his other, odd gifts.

     However, what he did next made his hippo – my hippo – absolutely ideal. To people like Tim and I, that is.

     For, to my astonishment, he casually took the toy in his hands, twisted, and ripped it cleanly  in two.

     He ripped off its head, which he gave to me, whilst he kept the body.

    I will never get rid of that mutilated, foam hippo head. For he understood what no one else had ever come near.

     In this way – perhaps – Tim and I became synonyms. Synonyms for what ignorant perceptions would later christen ******, or merely, crazy (the latter - coined by those who remain too depressingly colloquial to invent unfounded diagnoses).

     These epithets, catalyzed post personifying such societal taboos as Tim or I committed, follow me still, and have yet to disperse.
     A criticaster disaster, personified.

     Yes; in this way – Tim and I became synonymously insane.

Chapman University destroyed my life.

(Edited out(?): My failed death-wish, and subsequent involuntary hospitalization, would render malicious and ignorant individuals to alienate and shun my entire existence. My former allies, friends, and peers - those who had "loved" and "supported" me - would soon slander and sabotage me simply to maintain their own fabricated facades.
     Associating with someone who failed at suicide is a social deathwish, apparently; yet, if I'd succeeded, they'd lament and mourn their "loss.")

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.6k · Feb 2016
The Older I Grow
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
the less I
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.6k · May 2016
If You’re Never Found
1.6k · Feb 2016
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
spilled milk;

DO cry
over spilled
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.5k · May 2016
Since It Wasn't Me
Maple Mathers May 2016
tell me
"The ****** went full on ******!" - Vinny's jealous Ex Girlfriend  desperately needing a DSM
1.5k · Feb 2016
I Am
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
far too young

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.5k · May 2016
The Last Supper
Maple Mathers May 2016
​​     I was ten years old when I wrote it.
One lone sentence. A sentence that would become my mantra; the sentence that defines my existence.

I wish I were dead.

I first wrote it in my journal. Then a couple days later, I wrote it again. Then again. And again and again and again. Until eventually, the pages had all been claimed. Each line on each page reiterated one phrase – I wish I were dead.

Although I was merely a fourth grader, this was no passing phrase (get it?). Ten years separate me from that lone sentence, yet I am ready as ever.

​I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I WISH I WERE DEAD.

​This is how I feel six days out of seven.
I can no longer count the number of failed attempts, the static loony-bin trips, the hospital hopping routine – a process I’ve memorized verbatim.

Can’t say how many times I’ve survived these garbage disposals for the insane.

You’d think if I really wanted to die, I’d be dead already. Yet, in a bizarre manner, not even the Grim Reaper wants me. I’ve consumed rat poison and lived, rolled my mom’s car and escaped without a scratch, tumbled from heights so high, yet – here I am.

One night, last summer, I mixed molly with coke with ****** with so much liquor – because liquor is quicker – thinking for certain I’d orchestrated my demise. Some of my friends were squatting in this foreclosed house, so there was no electricity, and I spent hours playing Sims with some girl in the dark.

Eventually, my computer died – but I didn’t.

The list goes on.

On this list, there’s one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. A night I’ll forever regret. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away.

This is how it went.

​     The Last Supper was comprised of 150 assorted pills, and some secondhand Jack Daniels.

I ate alone. I’d exchanged dining hall for bathroom; chair for bathtub. I held one lone utensil – a razor blade – nestled safely in my hand. Cradling the blade like a child who found the cookie jar – the way my boyfriend worshiped a fresh syringe of ******; I snuggled that sacred utensil.

I failed to savor this Last Supper – for dine and dash would more appropriately summarize my actions. I ravaged the meal as a stray dog would raw meat. Gagging and choking, whilst feeling nothing at all.

All those pills, that jack, I poured into a jar and chugged like a freshman in college. (Get it?) The most unconventional supper you ever did see.

My makeshift chair filled slowly with water like concrete – and soon I’d be buried alive. So I squeezed the razor tight, pretending it was a loved one’s hand instead.

​Yet – nothing happened.

I considered my lone utensil – the blade – then laughed, and threw it aside. How high school of me – a time when I confused my wrist with a cutting-board. Oh, silly me; my insides could do the work without external additions.

​However, the nausea hit before I’d relinquished consciousness. I feared I would toss my cookies – ones stolen from the cookie jar – before they could toss me.

​An important factor to note is this was not my house. It belonged to my boyfriend’s aunt. And although she was not home – he was. Earlier, I’d thrown a knife at his head and told him I was glad Morgan died, to ensure he’d leave me be, but now I was bored and nauseous and so I got up and left the Last Supper to pursue a bad cliché I just died in your arms tonight.
​ What happened next is not important – I’ll fast-forward to what is.

The first to come was a young girl.
​She wore her blonde hair in two braids. Her tiny body, adorned in a loose, blue dress. Her feet were sheathed in neat white socks beneath modest, black slippers; slippers that matched her headband. A headband to cradle her mind.

​Her existence stupefied mine – for I knew at once who she was. And I was terrified.

This girl was coasting her eighth birthday. A birthday she’d never reach.

And yet – she was as wise as I am thin; far wiser than my nineteen-year-old self. She never spoke, but there was no need. Everyone talks, but seldom is speech genuine. Only in actions can we find the truth.

I’d waited my whole life for her. My true, beloved best friend. A girl as imaginary as could be.

Alison Wonderland.

Unfortunately, she had no intention of staying. She had no interest in my world; she’d only come to take me to hers. She’d come to take me away. Far away. Away so far I could never return.

This time – finally – I’d be gone for good.

My whole life I’d waited; now, she’d finally come. Not to join my life. She’d come to watch me die.

We both knew my lifespan would hardly outlast the hour.

Collapsed within a shower, I floundered for words. Separated from her by a mere pane of glass. She was so close. And yet, I was far from happy – I’d nearly surpassed hyperventilation. Literally stunned to death.

This beautiful angel maintained composure, however; unaltered by my frigid welcome. An unwavering smile illustrated her entire physic, whilst she offered her hand to mine – arm outstretched and waiting.

The ultimate invitation.

However, we were not alone. Not two, but three souls occupied this bathroom. The bathroom of my Last Supper.

On my side of the glass was a man. A man I knew. A man I loved. A man whose manhood was verified by little more than age – 25. Whilst numbers generally distinguish between childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, he was much more a boy than a man. His maturity – vastly negated by defining characteristics. You see, this 25-year-old boy was also a pathological liar, a sociopath, and a ****** addict. He was the stranger your mommy warned you not to talk to – and he was my boyfriend.

My boyfriend, our third addition, was christened Daniel no-middle-name Rodden. An alias more accurately spelled Rotten – which I knew, but refused to accept. So instead, he was just Danny.


I surrendered consciousness slowly. I was crumpled, trembling and mumbling, grappling to sit up or speak.

With all my strength I pointed, terrified and confused, at Alison.

“How is she here?” I wanted to scream. “How’d she get in? What’s happening?”

“What are you talking about?” Danny’s voice wondered. “There’s no one out there. I promise I promise.”

He must have been blind. For Alison remained, hand outstretched, waiting and waiting.

However, Danny Rotten and Alison Wonderland could not see each other. Nor could they hear or feel one another. They existed within uncorrelated dimensions. They were, in fact, entirely irrelevant to one another, compromised by one single factor. Me. Because not only was I physically dying – directly between them (monkey in the middle?) – my consciousness floundered amidst their two wonderlands.

But this was temporary, for we all knew I had less than an hour to make a choice; a life with this toxic boy, or a death with this loving girl. Death, which I’d coveted since I was ten. This decision could not be undone; I could not keep them both.

I never took this hand I was offered – Alison Wonderland’s – I clung to Danny instead. A decision I’ll forever regret. But I had yet to meet the Grimm Reaper.

Somehow, I’d been transported back into the bathtub. I sat back at the table of my Last Supper. Only, this time, I was not to dine alone.
I remember Danny’s face – if only for a split second – covering mine. His handsome, Spanish features contorted in fear; even mussed and wet, his dark hair swam across his forehead with graceful finesse.

On his face I’d never seen such emotion, nor will I ever again.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, I lost sight of that face. I knew he was speaking, perhaps even yelling, his physic – inches from my own. But then, the stampede arrived, trampling him whole.

Empty handed, Alison might have left. But this evaded me.

For into the room poured innumerable intruders. My ghostly escort, it would appear. Some spoke to me, some avoided. Some set up a poker game in the corner – waiting on my choice – whilst others conjured chairs like rabbits from a hat. Chairs they set up around this bathtub. Enveloped in bodies, my Final Supper had become a banquet of sorts. Danny tried to hand me a bucket, to throw up my poison, but I was so weak I couldn’t have held it had I wanted to.

Out of all these people – souls I presumed dead – I recognized only two faces.

Preston and Henry. Two boys I knew – and although ****** addicts, they were alive and well. Not ghosts like the rest. However, within the next two weeks those two would both overdose and nearly die.

Coincidence? I think not. Yet, I digress.  

That was when he appeared, for above the bathtub stood a window. Outside that window, I glimpsed a man. A man I’d been chasing since I was ten.

Mister Grimm. I remember not his attire, nor any defining details, only the expression on his face as his eyes singed my own. Complete and utter hatred and malice, with fatal intentions. He looked to me as his arch nemesis – and had I invited him in, he would have given me what I’d always wanted. I knew this to be true.

I knew also that, although Alison had appeared to be the defining choice, she was not. This man was. And in that pivotal moment, I began to scream.

I screamed for Danny – to make this Grimm go away, to tell him to leave.

Danny did. And when I next looked up, the man was no more. Gone, too, was everyone else. I took Danny’s bucket, hurled, and knew no more.

This is one night I’ll never forget; an attempt that far outweighs the others. The night I came face to face with the grim reaper, for the first and only time, and somehow turned away. A night I’ll forever regret. Sometimes, however, I wonder if it was not mister Grim I was looking at, but Danny’s reflection: the monster he soon became.

Or, perhaps, it was not a male I saw in that window.

Perhaps, It was myself.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)


Also, fun fact. Danny's now in prison under 3 felony accounts of ****** relations with a minor. I was the only one who came to his trial several weeks ago. His lawyer asked me to testify in his defense. What fell from my mouth was, "I don't want to have to lie..."

1.5k · Mar 2016
You Used To Be
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
My type,

Then, I got
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.4k · Feb 2016
Peripherally Mine
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
You are                                                              ­             
My ellipsis dots,                                           
                  trailing away, unspoken                     
. . .
                                                  You'll always belong
                                                                              on my horizon.
“I like your face better than you like my face.”

All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016
***Minus this one, sort of, as it was adapted but an old sinistra poem - the original work by my sister, Whitney Ingrid Will ©, 2007/2008.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
The moon, it was watching
The stars coalesce,
While blatantly stalking
Right into this **MESS.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.3k · Feb 2016
The Weight of Time
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
In this ice cold jungle,
I followed a cat
Across metal tree trunks and
carpets of grass

A fluorescent sun
hung amongst ceilings of sky
To wonder at THIS

is to wonder at

Unheard and unseen, enveloped


You’d think that a JUNGLE
would not be so

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.3k · Feb 2016
You Call This A Party
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Yet, where is the fun

When my best friends tonight
won't know me, come morning?
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

This is the epitome of interactions within Southern California's Top, private universities; when you're on scholarship, unaffiliated with Greek Life, and without an agenda and/or facade. Entities more superfluous and shallow than one could ever fathom, save for when in happenstance.
Maple Mathers May 2016

The only reason
you still care
is because
**I don't.
No apologies
1.3k · May 2016
NEVER Follow Your Heart
Maple Mathers May 2016

Find what you love,
and **** it.

Before it kills

If you ain't that viscous, you ain't ambitious.
1.2k · May 2016
Ambition < Addiction
Maple Mathers May 2016
Regressing into happenstance
I grasped the Rabbit in my hand
One sip I took, upon a chance
Off the edge, into quicksand. . .

Blacking out on your front lawn
On the ground, where you could stand
Can’t remember dusk or dawn,
Sinking fast into quicksand.
Worth continuing?
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…

Alison Wonderland.
(Carnival Infatuation)

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
1.2k · May 2016
Today, I Told You
Maple Mathers May 2016

I love you.

For only the second time, ever
have I confessed this
and yet.

I genuinely meant it.
I know you will break my heart someday.
And yet, I'm not scared. Because, no matter what.
You are, and will always be
worth it.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.2k · Mar 2016
Spoil Him Rodden
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
From: Daniel Rodden

This notice is from Daniel Rodden who is currently residing in Garfield jail. This is an informational email to let you know of the different options available for communication with Daniel Rodden. Several services offered by the jail:
The following options are available at Inmate Canteen.
Deposit Funds
Purchase Phone Cards
Buy Canteen
Video Visitation*
E-mail an Inmate
1.2k · May 2016
Did You Feel
Maple Mathers May 2016

the ghosts of
my past?

and when we got too close,

did they haunt you,
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
1.1k · May 2016
How I Saw You
Maple Mathers May 2016
G'day from prison!*
(before I knew he lives on):

I see you there, My Maple.

Your little skirts; your peroxide hair.  Sweet, quiet Maple... I see your fishnet, maroon, little sweater. How I loved that thrift-store garment; it gave purpose to us both. For you, an excuse to see, without being seen. A voyeuristic excuse, for myself, to see without being seen.

If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t know this.

I picture your starkness. Dark, ten year old Maple. Listening with wide eyes - as I validated you.

As no one else had before.

I nurtured that Goth infatuation that no one wanted, fed you music: your Evanescence covet. Your black fingernails... Even then, I understood what no one else could.

Yummy, tasty, Maple.

How good you smelled; how fresh you smelled. Clean, and sad. Searching for reassurance. Searching eye's, searching for me.

Searching for someone. Anyone. A real person; content to SEE you, and love you anyways. Not like the rest; all of them - who'd only ever cast you aside - pick you last - call you names, spit in your face, lock you out and alienate you; who’d kick and shove you.
The *someones
behind why you, at age ten, began to wish you were dead.
I was there, and I was your best friend.


I was the best friend you'll  ever have. Someone who loved an anomaly, and understood, and loved you best; over your mother - your sister - I told you I had a crush; a crush for only you.

10 years have lived and died between us.

10 years without me.

And the weight of time has yet to alleviate.

You still wish you were dead.

I still feel your warmth; the little bundle of you.


You in your cozy, blue bed, with your
curious eyes and porcelain face. I would slip five dollar bills under your pillow; tell you, “I’ve hidden something secret.”  

I adorned you with money, pampered you with special trinkets, allowed rare privileges disproved by your mother... A mother who hadn’t a clue you’d worshipped angry rap since the age of eight. She didn’t know. You idolized Eminem. She’d yet to learn his name. You wanted to see 8 Mile; your mother said no – Rated R – so it was our little secret.

But you betrayed our secrets, didn't you?

We have no secrets anymore.

I see you there.

The soft, supple skin of your back . . . of your stomach . . . and of what lay below.

“What’s down there?” I’d inquired.

So enamored, exploring the secrets of your little body.

My demure, sad Maple.

I was your one and only true companion.

I was your one, and only friend.

Yet, here, in this cell, you will never see your best friend again.

You will never have a best friend again.

For in this cell, I have nothing left, but to remember.

I have nothing left but to write.

All my love, my presents, my company. All to end up here.

Here, behind bars.

And the weight of time has yet to alleviate.

You still wish you were dead.

But you and I - we've become synonymous.

Together, forever.

Just as I said, ten years ago. For, no matter what, my existence will always define you; and yours - you will define mine.


You'll never be rid of me, and you can never leave me.

For I'll never leave you.

Our bond is solidified.


Together forever.

Ten years. Eleven, twelve. The calendars change, but you and I? We’re right where we left each other.

So you'll never be anything. Anything at all. Anything else but mine.

The weight of time won't ever alleviate.

And you STILL wish you were dead.

- Thomas Gregory Brown, G'day from prison
(The perspective of a ****** predator; to be ballsy, but to wonder how ...and why. let's try?)

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Just look at me now.
All gift wrapped, and such
Do you like what you see?
Cause I don’t, very much.

                    As the lying won’t cease
                    And my truth is horrific,
                    You don't want to ask me
                    To be more specific. . .

So I’ll say goodbye
And tell you to go;
Don’t look for a truth
You won’t want to know.
I wrote this when I was 15 post observing the guidelines of traditional ballads. This is the product of a linguistic makeover :)

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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