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Maple Mathers Mar 2016
Written at age 15... it's rusty:

**Last night you were the focus of my dreams.

There were others, swirling in and out, and making demands, and just visiting, but yours was the only face that stood out.

And you were happy, for once.

We sat on my bed just soaking up each other and you weren’t pressuring me into *** or out of your mind upset, there was some sort of resonating contentedness and I felt fuller than I have felt in so long.

Almost like it was back to last fall, and you still wanted me.

Then you got up, picked up a black bag and walked away, without a word or backwards glance. I might have been asleep, or merely preoccupied, or maybe I just sat there and watched you leave, as if I had known this was to be our fate all along. I remember wondering when you were planning on coming back, when deep down I knew.

You weren’t coming back at all.

     I woke up to a plethora of messages from other boys, like always, and I wondered why none of them had made it into my dreams.

And why none of them were from you.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

The **** you believe when you're a just a child, and some predatory older guy convinces you he's your fairytale prince and then one day you realize you're a ******* idiot and he's a sociopath ****** hell bent on destroying your world to negate the repercussions of his actions. Ruining my life saved his own.  

**** himself, already.
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
Your fingers of mesmer
Trace patterns on me,
Your words are the pavement;
Your eyes are the sea

Treading in words
That flood to the brink;
Your presence, my muse
Your essence, my ink.
(The unwavering time/When you hold my gaze/Keeps minutes, sublime -/Internal caches).

All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.
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
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
My daily activities range between avoiding most things
to avoiding all things.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Your imprint's emplacement
Massed fate's apogee,

Where words become pavement
Whilst time sets them free.

Too bad you didn't like it.
I actually wanted to make you feel special.
I don't write love poems
For this reason.
I wrote this for you and you couldn't even pretend to like it.
This is why I don't.
You want me to change so badly that
I did.
Made a change in my life.

"I should be more important that your book!"
One time I wanted to write
You never wanted to read
But you made it all about me ******* at life
like always
You're insane if you think that's okay.
To take my favorite and most important part of myself
And say you're angry it's not you.

You don't care for my passions
Unless you're the only one.


Spoiled people don't understand the value of trade
You have it all
And you don't know it.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
Once upon a time.

           Once upon a time there lived a young girl. A girl who believed that words could be mastered. This girl was young enough to confuse love with addiction – for in her mind, she knew no difference. She created symbols and motifs wherever she went. Speech failed her, but words did not. And more often than not, she listened, but did not hear a thing. When she listened, however, she maintained an untarnished faith in the words she heard.

           She was coasting fourteen when she encountered the master of words. He was disguised, however, as an unremarkable seventeen-year-old. His presence solidified a stereotype; he was older, darker, and lurid in his quest for love. Spun from his lust of literature, the boy could read with college leveled comprehension by the time he’d reached sixth grade.

           Once upon a time, a young girl met a boy whose charisma was nothing short of magic.

           Within the time they exchanged, she was too young, and he was needy, broken, and wildly manipulative. Their connection was catalytic and in some instances, he fell in love with her innocence, whilst she grew addicted to his words.

           Words; so trivial, so redundant, and so simple. Yet, so inexplicably controlling. In the same instance that sticks and stones could break her bones, his words would eternally mark her. His words, which enabled her addiction. Words that made it okay to leave her for another, to appear again, only to leave all over again. Words that – months later – talked him into her psyche, away from her companions, away from her family, her academics, her normalcy. Into a space where his redundant sweet-nothings ensnared and enveloped her whole. Into a space where she remained, waiting for the fix she could only find in his mind. Once upon a time, the master of words cajoled this young girl into a space which grew so vast, he eventually couldn’t fill it, so he left.

           On the brink of demise, she examined her feeble body. Within, she found the extra spaces. These spaces weren’t obvious; there were no gaping holes or severed chunks visible. Rather, her body was ravaged by innumerable chasms and hollows, small enough to overlook and large enough to define her; cracks in the foundation. Perhaps a gaping hole was preferable – the equivalent to a broken heart – consuming, but easier to pinpoint and remedy. One large hole in a wall can be filled in. But these cracks she felt, this empty space, it unsteadied her entire foundation.
Nine months into her word addiction, the girl could be found festering within hollows. Miles away from her former self, she dwelled within expired voicemails, his notes, his letters. She knew she had no one to blame but herself, but she blamed him anyways.

           Once upon a time, there lived an extra space in which a girl resided; a girl who was not only surrounded by extra space, but filled with it as well. There lived a recovering word addict. Subsequently, this was all her fault, which she realized in the saddest of circumstances. Yet, she slowly learned to fill the extra spaces with distractions. She encountered drugs, new friends, an environment where she sometimes belonged. She remedied her schoolwork, resurrected her family’s trust, and quenched her addiction with masochism instead. Yet, this new foundation stood a mere ghost of the old one. Within her psyche, there remained cracks and holes and the decaying animal of innocence. As some cracks were filled in, new ones spread forth. Her disrepair did not increase nor decrease in the years to come. Rather, it spread to different locations, as she patched and filled along the way. She strived to fill the void; and yet, nothing she tried, no pain she inflicted and no other drug she tried could fill the extra space inside of her. The foundation of her psyche remained perpetually flawed.

           Months later, the master of words returned. This time, he faced a girl who had been thwarted and mastered by his words, and had grown bitter and stronger. Greeted by this unfamiliarity, he left. Only to come back, and then leave, and return, and then leave again. Frequenting her enough to make sure the extra space remained. As the girl lived on, his magnitude faltered. Somehow, the boy lost his words, and mastered silence. This was mind boggling. How someone who was once defined by charm and charisma could lose his voice. How the master of words could become a pantomime of the past, lost enough to cease speech entirely. Lost enough to master silence.
           Once upon a winter night in the midst of February, the boy finally grappled to re-master words, and seek the extra space, so long reserved for him. He picked up a phone, wrote some long forgotten words, and she came to rediscover him – wondering if his words could rekindle her space. They sat on a bed of formalities and spoke of nothing. Later, when he kissed her, she realized something; this boy was human. He was not an addiction, or a master, and he had no talent of filling up her emptiness indefinitely. Whether she had put him on a pedestal or he had schemed it, she never knew. Her crucial realization was that no one can master words. Words are merely filtered thoughts, twisted and abused by manipulators, such as the boy who became human. Most words are not genuine. They cannot be mastered because they are infinite.
           Extra and speechless, she realized that she was not a victim to any of his actions. She had invited him in, fell every time for his words, created a void, and welcomed him back whenever he saw convenience. He was nothing special, nothing to crave, just a boy. A boy whose words disagreed with his thoughts.

           The next day, she lost her complete and utter faith in words. And years later, she would write books and letters; ones he could not fill.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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
ripping you to
I don’t know if you’ve noticed
The clot of doubt, that’s ebbing the flow
The words I hide, my thoughts unshown
Your penciled eyes, ablaze beneath
The tangible grip you'd like to keep. . .

But, I’m slipping
out of your
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
(Inspired by
a lifelong stranger)

These chronicles slinked from her chassis
– the mythomaniac;
she sold every copy.
Stories only fabulists could ink,
sealed within her schticks.
She enthralled every reader;
her cossets: spellbinding.
The husk of an angel
THE Pariah within.
Caped in pretense,
she skulked.
The blossoming killer…

And yet.

Your web of lies was spun so thick
It's you,
up there,
You wrote the rules, cunstructed the game, invited the whole world to play.
But in the end
it was YOU
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
I might scoop you
from that ***,
or watch you churn,
and watch you ROT.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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)
Maple Mathers May 2016
remember when
it was me

you were addicted
That drug's got you
Like I want you.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
spilled milk;

DO cry
over spilled
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
Full Head**

More often than not, words have failed me. I fill the gaps I create with stutters and stammers, even when I know that silence says so much more.

I’d rather be alone than with anyone else in the world.

I always wanted to fit in, but I simply did not know how.
An old suicide note excerpt
Maple Mathers May 2016
I sat up in bed, wide awake.

Mere seconds separated my dreams from reality. Yet, consciousness had seized me more effectively than ice water.

I had been caged within sleep, until something ridiculous happened.  

Something ridiculous, and something real.

I sprang from the covers, pulled on a sweater, and burst out the door. All around me was silent. Life, it seemed, was not yet awake.

I took a deep breath, and began running. I ran so fast my surroundings blurred into a pallet of color; the sound, still muted.

My feet flew across the dewy grass.

I imagined myself into smaller, simpler spaces; tucked in with the ghosts. How fast could I run from my dreams? How fast could I run towards reality?

If the grass had soaked my socks, I barely knew. If the wind had serenaded my skin, I remained disembodied. The alexithymia of consciousness.

My thoughts snaked and swerved and collided in my head, but in that stretch of oblivion, a lone inference guided me.

Nothing mattered in the world but one thought.

Wake up, Maple. Wake up.

The House of Addictions was the epithet I chose.

It nestled several blocks from mine, and was the type of estate that demanded normalcy.

Upon reaching the front hedge, I examined the house; two blue paneled stories. I didn’t know what I’d expected, but this wasn’t it.

I coaxed the front door.


I circled around to the backyard. The room I sought was on the second level. I ascended the balcony onto the porch; the room’s window stood several feet from where I could stand. There was a vacant flowerbox sitting on a ledge outside the window.

Without question, I clambered onto the deck’s railing and extended my leg into the flower box. It was a long way to fall, but I wasn’t scared. I had no choice. I clung with all my might to the window’s ledge, shifted my weight to the flowerbox leg, and plopped over the other. A scream frozen in my throat. Breathing heavily, a death grip on my perch, I crouched; the box seemed sturdy enough.

I peered through the window.

At this ungodly hour, he was most likely still asleep.


The bed was vacated. Did this mean? I closed my eyes, took a breath.

Wake up.

Things like this did not happen – plain and simple.

A minute later, after clambering off the flowerbox and scampering back down the stairs, I rejoined the street, sprinting along with renewed vigor.

The sun glistened on the grass, the morning, ripening. Yet, I heard not the sound of birds chattering on secluded sycamores, nor my feet pattering along the sidewalk. I was immaterial. I was the wind – gliding fluidly towards that which waited.

My body was to be found at a stoplight, punching the button spastically.

But my mind had already arrived, several streets away.

The stoplight changed. I ran. Stores whizzed by, early morning traffic sheathed the street. I had to slow my thoughts, I had to separate from the stark possibilities that incased me.

I’d dreamed of his death; simple, like the twelve forget-me-nots he threw across my floor five years ago. The last expression I saw as he departed still had yet to leave his face.

Although he moved home a year ago, he never really returned.

Wake up.

I veered my course to the left, dodging through traffic, and found the street.

It was there that my mind had arrived.

This avenue was vacated and tranquil, an eclipse of the earlier. And there was that house; green and silent as ever.

Clutching a stitch in my stomach, I dove over the waist high fence and tripped on my own foot. I fell, scraping my elbows on concrete and swearing beneath my breath, but I couldn’t stop. I scrambled to my feet and staggered towards a ground levelled window.

Exhausted, I tripped again. Then several strangled events laced together. First, I tumbled to that window. I held my hands out, expecting to hit glass, but realized too late that it was open. Before that fully registered, I was toppling – headfirst – through the open window. My insides plummeted, muting my scream. I hit the bed with a sharp thump, before it tossed me to the floor.

There, I landed, **** first, mute and sprawling.

While my body congealed, my heart auditioned as drummer, and stars teased my peripheral.

The room materialized as I blinked through confusion. Softy, I sat myself upright.

His eyes were the first thing I saw.

Reality zapped me so hard I almost fell back again; he was alive, I’d woken up.

Then my senses caught up; my elbows cried, my head throbbed, and my breath rekindled in ragged crackles. As if a switch was flicked, I suddenly identified sound; the humming of cars outside, the crisp ticking of a clock, the gurgling of his fish tank. So loud – so distinct. Color sharpened and brightened.

My mind in overdrive.

He was here.

He sat on his bed, alive and well, speechless with alarm.

Oliver was shirtless, lidded only by flannel pants and black gloves. He considered me with bleeding elbows, disheveled hair, and desperate eyes. Then, the shock on his face gave way for a giant grin.

“Come here often?” He inquired. His voice, raspy with morning.

Still panting and shaking, I conjured a smile to match Oliver's.

“You’d think so. . .” I choked.

“And I’d be right, Maple.” He finished. I managed a laugh.

Nothing had changed.
Note: I dreamt about death, and awoke feeling frantic. Although logic confirmed that everything was okay, my intuition said otherwise. To remedy my unease, I channeled that dream into a story. A story I wrote when I was fourteen years old. Seven years later, the same story continues to illustrate my psyche; a story that set the foundation for Pretense (my novel). Herein, you’ll find that story; the origin and epithet of Maple and Oliver Starkweather.
Here goes?

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

Maple Mathers Feb 2016
And my mind is
right where
I left
These words were left behind on the nightstand of my deceased uncle, Carl Leigh Will. A lifetime of crippling alcoholism and major depression met him with his untimely demise, dead on the floor of a supermarket after one week of sobriety he'd achieved.

His linguistic brilliance rivaled even the beatniks - and yet, the talent died upon the birth of an addict.

Here is a piece of what otherwise, will never be.

Absorb it how you wish.
Maple Mathers May 2016
everyone’s seeking something.

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

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.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
What does one do in vacant hours
When night descends its sable tapestry
And the past knocks on this window?
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers May 2016

The crux of tomorrow
Remains at stake
Through languid eyes
And double takes.

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

The only reason
you still care
is because
**I don't.
No apologies
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
Rigid, my mind
Tight fastened in thought
Alone, save the loudest
Of volumes you sought;

A rhythm surrounds me:
The beat never stops.
My wrist – ever pounding
Sleeve dripping, nonstop.

These sounds are resources
You’ll never see bought –
So rare, and so special
Yet, mine? They are not.

“Gems?” You do ponder,
As pure as could be.
You hear not this beating?
Live hearts seal my sleeve!

I gathered each one
From men and from lovers
Then, left them undone
To never recover

These hearts I collect
As one might a stamp,
Each choking my wrist;
All broken and damp

As wet hearts do bleed
Each torn from one’s chest
The blood, you’ll not see
It’s ink they express!

“Now, why not your own?”
You wonder, distressed
But my chest is empty:
Forlorn, dispossessed.

My heart is no more –
I searched sea to see.
“How so?” You deplore.
‘Twas taken from me!

In place of a heart
I now hold a pen;
I’ll never be whole –
Likewise to all them:

I **** all these lovers
Must spare not these men
For one sole ingredient
Will satisfy pen.

Such hearts I do mention
Once, twice, and again
Draw ribbons of ink,
Gliding fresh to my pen

Rigid, your mind
Interrupting my thoughts
Becoming the loudest
Of volumes not sought

“Release and replace!”
A mere noise; you infest;
Oh, leave me alone,
Or your heart will be next!
Tales of a succubus: the cycle of abuse, as told by the perpetrator.

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
you sent this from jail:

"My goodness these messages just made my morning. Absoloodle. I have been trying to call you but no luck..your'e right though communicating in here is tougher than it seems. Kitsch? Sounds delicious. I dreamt about you last night so this is just crazy right now. I love you so much.. Thank you thank you. I've lost so much and the fact that you out of anyone still cares lights a fire in me, making me stronger, and not letting this system break me down and dehumanize me and institutionalize my yoked up brains. No missy, i've actually been doing hundreds of pushups a day so i'm gonna come out all sculpted and angry haha..maybe a neck tattoo."

I miss the days I believed him.
I went to his trial drunk cause *******.
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
(my greatest failure - five years later)

What is this covet
Inside of my mind,
This subtle inscription
So purely defined?

When fairy-tales ceased
And images stopped
I padlocked my door
Yet, inside you walked

The present; suspended
Your hand on the frame
Your question extended
Amidst my derange.

Constructing the green
Encased in your eyes
Surrounded in gold. . .
Abundant inside

Under your slumber
I found my abyss;
Subtle as thunder
Perpetual hunger. . .

Holding the moon;
Discovering you
Our lives, intertwined
By golden fused blue.

Once, you accused me
Of not needing you
Yet, nothing you’d utter
Could be more untrue

No matter how distant,
Undone and askew;
No matter the question
I’ll always keep you.
How I saw you, post your Narcissistic Personality Disorder - that is.

(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 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.
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
I come to you now
All gift-wrapped - and such
Hope you like what you see,
Cause I don't, very much.

Dressed, and accomplished
Within the charade,
I've nothing but danced
This stark masquerade.
My mind is shot. My words are not. So, here's what tumbled out.

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)
Maple Mathers Jan 2016
Something within me
Just isn’t quite right,
Edging its way
Right into the light

Is it my fault,
Or is it my genes?
My mental unrest
Is more than it seems.

From inside my mind
This flaw is long etched
Bound and entwined
This bottle; my sketch

These spirits cajole me;
Caress, lick, and tame
Then slaughter my conscience
In shambles, my brain

My epitaph states
If I were to die
Of my lack of control;
An unanswered cry

And where can I go?
This race, can I halt?
The best and the worst;
It’s namely my fault.

Something inside me
Deep under my skin
Isn’t quite right
Diseased from within

Fallen above
The height of alone,
The solitude found
Is what I condone;

Hidden, and silent
Inside my cocoon
My demons and I;
ALONE, in my room.
My mind is shot. My words are not. So, here's what tumbled out.

All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016.
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
far too young

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
to school
with me

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
But I'll take it.**

Seth Sentry
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
in trouble

the crime scene.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)

one day I'm ******* SNAP
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)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
the existence

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

I never dreamed I'd know someone so evil, he'd rather fall asleep to me dying silently, then hear me gasping for breath.
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
when I come to it.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Feb 2016
on which
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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.
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)
Maple Mathers May 2016

*Voices ignored

Sanity stained

Conscience aside,

Maple Mathers Feb 2016
. . .

(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 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
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
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.
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
Doesn't make her an
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
Maple Mathers Mar 2016
An instant such as that, god only knows how much it had hurt. I resolved on a plan, a terrible, disgusting plan. One that required me to push away my conscience and semblance of self entirely.

A plan which left me ultimately heartless.

Oliver Starkweather, the only boy in the world. He had taken the part of me which made me more vulnerable to him than anyone else. Not only that, he was the only person I felt that I truly cared about, the only person, family included, that I could even begin to imagine using the word love on. The only entity that could ever hurt me. And that realization tied me to him forever.

Yet, that made me weak when I wanted to be strong, controlled when I wanted to control.

I had discovered a secret in a week that Oliver hadn’t in a year. His father; rich, generous, and virtually absent from his life, had a small additional house built on their property. Something he’d told me once was, “My dad works in sales.” At night when I couldn’t sleep, I took to exploring their big empty house. One week into my stay, I dared to venture out into the newer one. It was there that I discovered the bookcase. It appeared normal, every book on the shelf was dusty and ridiculously boring looking. The rest of the room had similar bookshelves with similar looking books, but they were mixed in with vibrant titles and a more alluring collection. From there, I began taking down books off of the shelf and flipping through them. The majority were as boring inside as they were out, but the fifth one I collected - which came from the top right corner - turned me whole perception upside down.

Being a morbid little girl, I had always been fascinated with taboos. I would sneak into my dad’s office at night and search words on his computer. Words like gore or ******* or drugs. When I opened that book I knew instantly, even at fourteen, that a book with all the inside pages cut out and baggie after baggie of white powder inside meant trouble. On the shelf, I found three more secret stashes. After that I’d seen enough.

    When the autopsy was performed, the results read drug overdose. My tracks were well covered, for Oliver’s dad assumed Oliver had been secretly dipping into his bookshelf. Dealing was a felony that Mr. Starkweather was not about to risk, so he confessed that Oliver had been struggling with a drug problem. Sweet, demure, heartbroken me was sent back home, and years of therapy brainwashed me into so much denial that I was able to bottle up the entire story and force myself to forget. Deep down, I’d always known, but my mental unrest defied that.

Consequently, he returned. Maybe karma drove me crazy, maybe it was guilt.

But more than anything, it was probably loneliness.
(All poems original Copyright of Eva Denali Will © 2015, 2016)
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