I love the control
of painting my forearm
with swollen ribbons
imprinted on skin.
        They tingle when hidden
       begging to be exposed to sparkles
of a sun.
    Like the little creature living inside
  my heart.
       A nightingale
with daggers for wings
   slicing into my liver
     singing her song
which goes “the end –
    the end is coming,
          – the end –
     the end is near.”
And I’ll hold her close at dawn
singing our song;
just two kindred spirits
waiting to die alone.

It gets easier every day
to drag the stainless steel
across my forearm.

          And I get closer every day
        to slicing it across my veins
            and paddle in puddles of putrid red;
         but I'm not supposed to feel what I feel
       at every pretty pink sunrise
       and freckled night skies.

I trudge through days
wishing for night to come
only to wake up to another one;
a million more nights
of having dreams of a world beyond
this fuckery.

I'm eating a burnt omelette
with sides so hard I'd spit them out
and I wonder if I can spit my heart out
maybe then I'd stop feeling
all my feelings
and things wouldn't be so hard
and I wouldn't think
"am I going to snap?"
and then snap
and then pretend like nothing
happened at all.

One day, my head will hang loose.
in a shredded, old noose. The apartment will be empty;
sick whimpers in the cold.
A chair sits – with a sagging face,
      waiting to be toppled from
under me.
      
Right time – right motivation –
right moment.
My skin will be hot, and my veins will be blue;
I’ll close moist eyes, lips thin, hoping for painless death
to come true.
        I think, I’ll feel renewed.
             Only to find my legs kicking
         from under me – like I’m drowning in an ocean
           of unoxygenated ecstasy.

Laughing at the pathetic attempts of my body fighting pure
    misery.
“Not strong enough,” they’d whisper; I’ll prove them wrong
and grab peace by the neck
        like the noose
        did to me.

She’ll come home at 10 to find the lights on;
hit the door and scream of forgotten vengeance
only to find a nobody had died
and cry and cry and cry
till her eyes are dry.