I am seventeen years old
And I’m sitting at the bottom of my tub.
I’ve cracked my wrists open like the windows in my room-
I’m trying to let some light in
I need to breathe fresh air into my body.
this is the only way I know how
I have closed the curtains,
boarded up the doors.
you had a key
And you trekked in mud and pine needles from the giant spruce tree outside.
I pick them out of my hair
And line them up on the side of the stained porcelain tub.
I am thinking of putting out a foreclosure sign in my front yard-
Abandoning these halls and leaving everything but this stained tub behind.
Seventeen is hard and rough,
It had calloused hands and it took things from me I wasn’t ready to give.

- I am twenty now
- And I’ve redone my home and tore out the stained tub

a kiss

it's simple really

two lips touching

although it can be complex

just talking about it makes my feelings twist 

but it depends on who with.

with you it would be complex because it would mean something 

but with someone else it would be simple, just two lips touching

I suppose we will figure out the full complexity when we do

I went from a lover to a liar in a heartbeat;
the flip of a switch as soon as I heard I could get what I'd been craving.

The jolt of electricity through your bloodstream, the feeling of being alive with your senses on fire, the ability to seem untouchable: superhero like even...

Almost nothing compares in that moment, but in the afterglow, when your cape begins to lose its wind and your heart starts to slow, nothing feels worse than pondering it's destined finale.

Discovering your conscience, all the while knowing that no matter how much you love someone, the poison always comes first.

It's a terrible reality, the ability to choose.

And I always choose wrong, down the path of the chemical adventure, knowing that at the end, I always inevitably fall off the cliff.

But it's an obsession: being on top of the world, and no matter how much time passes, or how far I think I've come, she always wins.

It's the slow onset, the clarity, the peaks where everything seems far better than it actually is, but now the dream is over.

I need to let it go or it will consume me; living in a false reality, locked in to my need for perfection.

She used to calm me and make me godlike, but now I've fallen from my pedestal and upon looking up, I see she turns me into the monster I've never wanted to be...

Hiding, in shame, from the soul I love the most. I wish I could tell her, divulge all of my secrets, but the fear of the disappointment on her face is too much for me to bare.

Because I know she could help me,
if I would just tell her the truth.

I think the tears that slip out the corners of your eyes when you are laying on your back in your bed are the saddest

It's like I'm writing letter
after letter after word
after sentiment and sentimentality
to you.
"You"
This elusive love has not left
my bones yet
nor will it ever.
It has seeped into me,
and no matter how many things
I write and say and do,
it is here to stay.
I'll fill pages with you,
thoughts and whispers and prayers.
Maybe, sometime, parts of me will move on,
but the parts I have given to you
will always be yours.

I used to be so tired
Those days I often thought about my death
My fantasies involved the kitchen knife

I never had the courage to hurt myself
The attention it might bring, it scared me
The thought of people noticing me, even in death, horrified me
I thought, how embarrassing, how weak

I hardly ever cried back then
I was more angry than sad, more tired than angry
But I cried the day I tried to die

I swallowed as many pills as I could fathom
No one was home, but I still did it with an impatient pace
I was calm when I thought my final words to myself
And I sat in the corner of my kitchen floor,
Hoping that someone would find me despite not wanting to be seen
I wanted that

But

I puked it all out



Ashamed
Disgusted
Frustrated

I cried
I cleaned the mess
I went to bed

I lived.