i was nine and small

mouthed when i found

what would be my suicide note

in a bottle by the boulders

at kleinmond



at the time i believed

i was too smart for this world and so

paradoxically

i could not understand

how love could ****



children are foolish in some ways\and in some ways fortunate



sometimes what is not meant

to be will be

and what is meant

to be will not

but if everyone had just one

person i don’t think it could

be called love



although i don’t know what else

it could be



when i think about how

many people drown in my town

every summer

i wonder if maybe it was never intended

for us to learn to swim



i could make a similar

argument about love

I hear voices in my head that guide my actions. I'm not crazy, I just like knowing somebody agrees with me.
Around the age of 10, these voices came to me in an attempt to make me forget about all my struggles. They were there through the thin of my lips to the thick of my Gluteus and stayed ever-present through the first feelings the spark of love.
And once that spark was extinguished and I began to shame my body, my voices calmed me and quelled the rising need to escape the gloom. They told jokes. And I laughed heartily, kissing my palm and placing it to my forehead as an offer of complete infatuation with the voices.
But it didn't remain that way. We began to argue in my mind, shifting my action into chaos as I began to realize that my brain had become a cave harboring a snake like a zoo. So I stopped listening.
I didn't want to hear them anymore, I wanted them to shut up.
But they never did.
At times, they would get very quiet just to yell at a rate to leave ringing in my ears, and I would cry at their pains.
By mid-puberty, I had grown accustomed to these shouts. I had even learned to ignore them. And most of the loud voices began to disappear.
But One remained, a single cage to my canary. A bite to my jugular and a constant reminder of the sickness I claimed in my mind.
He only came around when I was upset, and he’d always etch me into actions so regrettable that he didn’t realize affected him as well.
He wanted me to die.
For years I combatted him, cursing him into a withdrawal but then speaking up a weakness that would inspire his powerful words and presence again. Oh how mighty his power over me was.
His very voice sent chills through my spine and blood rushing through my veins. His tone turned my blackened skinned the color of used, sopping wet coffee grinds. The bite present in every consonant he uttered made my ears pop with unease as if the pressure grew under my eyelids.
He was my demon.
After my second attempt at love had fizzled he had been the one to tell me to slash that tire. He was the reason I bit Jamea’s lip and drew the taste of rich blood to my tongue hungrily as if vampiric. He was the reason I spent so many nights up crying in fear as I would chant “What’s happening” or “what am I doing”… or “why am I still here”
His counsel became sadistically acceptable, nearly sexually desired to me as the depth of his voice boomed with close proximity to my heart. I could feel the warmth of my body grip the chill of the air and I’d chuckle like a school girl.
This became my reality, a bubble of sadism sautéed with fear and drenched in disgust. He would addict me to the taste of blood, the color of death. He would introduce me to the feeling of pain and the emotion of anguish.
And I began to love it. I would press pen tips to my skin and draw the sweet nectar of my essence.

Of course, no one understands me. They say I need help.
Maybe they’re right
But every time my mind becomes aware of the hold from him, he soothes me with box cutters and cuddles in the warmth of my skin’s openings.
I’m in love with his deception and his truth. I love the life he has given me and never again will I complain when I hear
the voices

The day moves on.
The week moves on.
The month and year all move on.
Life, of course, moves on.

        But some of us
        Life moves on without.
        We're left where we stopped
        Sitting along and wondering why.

              Life has no time for our selfish thoughts,
                    Life has no care for how we cope.
                         Life just moves on.

And so
Must we.

Easier said than done, I suppose.

Total trust implies one must
remove all doubt that remains about
untold plans or secret spans
some past betrayals can last
that give cause for us to pause

You stabbed me in the back
and then pretended
like you were the one
who was bleeding.

Trust me
Because I know the feeling of pain
Of betrayal

Trust me
Because I know how to feels to be lost
With no where to run

Trust me
Because I know how it feels
To want the pain to stop

Trust me
Because I know how hard it is to find someone to trust

Vulnerability is trust
Trust is vulnerability
Carefully tread these dark waters;
do not lose yourself.

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.