This is the last thing I write with you in mind
You thought I've been writing for you
I don't write for those who need my time
Only when it best suits them to.

This will remain short and sweet, I've no energy to rant
This will remain a reminder not to continually reach out a hand
This will remain a stamp of me feeling closer than ever to done
This will remain exactly what it is, a poem for you: the last one.

*** starved and aging badly
Too many cigarettes and 'dank *** ****'
Bad tattoos and ****** hair so scraggly
He's called in sick to work all week

He set his high score four years ago
But she broke his heart last June
Now he's stuck in his parents basement
Doing speed runs on Halo 2

She has no cash to feed her cats
But she bought two wigs on Monday
She dresses up like anime girls
And thinks she'll be famous someday

She'll tell you she's just keeping it real
While dressed like someone from science fiction
She meets the boy at some comic con
And they go to her hotel room to make friction

...

Edgelords and meme queens
Addicted to the obscene
Spewing hateful words
With no care for what they mean

It seems that even the regals
                                   Are doing their kegels

I am bleeding but not dying
I want to go but am not trying
I'm reaching but not flying
I'm screaming but not lying.

I feel something bitter at the back of my tongue when I see them
We both know I am tethered here now, will do nothing, am bound.
But jealousy burns in my chest like bile and hisses, demands to know when
We both know I have no answer, no timeline for my touchdown.

You think I won't, you know it, I've been here so long
You think I care about a promise whispered in a heartbeat.
I want to rip out my esophagus and wind it round my lungs
I want to peel back my skin, carefully separate my veins, and bleed.

What am I doing here?

I cannot, will not, I refuse to live.

Yet here I am without you
Breathing.
Smiling.
Speaking.
Working.

I hate it.

If you knew where you were going, why didn't you invite me?
I would follow you wherever you said you wanted to go.
Instead I sit on empty promises and hang onto life and my mother's pleas.
I will tear apart my mind and body and bury myself in winter's first snow.

I am not okay.
You are not here.
I am not there.

I cannot fly.






Help.

I am begging for help
I have been here before
I know how this goes
I am begging for help
But my lips remain closed.

"I'm okay," I whisper, stubbornly forcing my jagged edges back together.
"I'm okay," I murmur to my favorite knife, and it believes me as much as I do.
"I'm okay," I tell my ceiling, and count the breaths I'm still taking.
"I'm okay," I insist to my reflection, and I pretend I believe it is me.
"I'm okay," I mouth to my computer, and it distracts me until I believe.
"I'm okay," I think, and I do not believe myself, so I will say it once more.



"I'm okay," I whisper, stubbornly forcing my jagged edges back together.

I stare at the closet doors.
Ugly brown bifold  doors that slide open.
They are in the house we moved into
1800 miles away from home.
That east coast house holds memories, tears,
     pain and tragedy.
A new start, a new home, a new place.
Behind the closet doors are his guitars.
Those strings played countless chords;
Chords that eased his soul and occupied his mind.
Notes rang out. If you listened, you could hear his story.
I miss his music. I miss his beautiful eyes...
I miss my child.
The doors are open and I take out the acoustic guitar.
Strum to check out the tuning, hoping to play,
But the strings are old and out of tune.
They are worn like my soul.
Tears fall as a place the guitar back.
The last thing he did before he died was play one last song.
He tucked his pick neatly in the strings,
Then he was gone.
I close those ugly brown doors knowing that soon I will try again.
Maybe one day I will restring that guitar,
But for now, I will just remember.

I will reach out the same hands I used to push the world away
And grasp to it like a child
Do not leave me alone right now or I will cease to exist.

I will fade, eventually, one day, maybe; but I will not fade like this.

I will shake apart into the billion pieces I ripped myself into
And scatter myself in the wind.
If I am apart, I cannot, all at once, be yanked from my body.

There's is no pull but the one I feel, I know something's got me.

I can feel the panic creep up my spine and constrict my lungs
Hold my hand please
I am not ready, I don't want to leave again, I can't endure another crash.

I curl into the tightest of ***** and pray this moment will pass.





I would that you, someone, would make me real.
I have tried and failed.
In this moment, I exist and I believe it.

Tomorrow, I will float above myself and know.
I will know we are all a lie.
I will question why I pretend at living and try to cease it.

Paranoia will cover my brain and tell me the truth:
None of this is real. I am not real.
But I would like to real. I would that you, someone, would make me it.