I like the way you destroy yourself. The way your corpse-like face, with its sunken in cheeks and hollowed out eyes, smiles a crooked yellow smile at the thought of being buried in the ground, rotting away. I thought it was beautiful the way you'd force your fingers down your throat with spindly fingers, "look a rainbow," you'd say, "it's so beautiful," you'd whisper, clutching a slow burning cigarette between the two yellow fingers of your other hand. You'd flush the toilet with such grace. The whole process would've been that of a maestro conducting Beethoven’s 7th symphony, and for all you knew, it was.

I loved that time we were lying in that figurative gutter of morality and you handed me a sharpie, "wanna play connect the dots?" you rolled up your sleeve.

I still remember that day you stole that wedding dress from the Salvation Army. it was out of style and it's still up for debate whether that stain was red wine or blood, but you waltzed right in there, a needle still sticking out of your ******* neck, took that dress in your own two, scab littered arms, and walked right out the front door like you owned the place. I could've kissed you.

In that dress you looked like a princess, with your stringy hair and frame so malnourished that it hung off of you like you were wearing a pair of drapes, you looked like a something out of a bonafide Disney movie.

With my hand in your right hand, and a bag of speed in your left, you pulled me around the corner into the seclusion of the alley.

"I look like a princess"

You looked beautiful

"And that makes you my prince"

A homeless man stirred from behind a dumpster, peeking over the top, his eyes - though showing clear signs of many years deep in any bottle he could find - showed realization. His hand disappeared in the downward direction, his eyes were wide.

“And you know what princes and princesses always get?"

My hand was around your fragile throat, your neck read like Braille, you smile, such a beautiful smile.

"They always get, a happy ending"

And from there, I can't be sure, but I think all three of us finished at the same time.

But of all the days we had together, of every self-destructive tendency you had, I will always remember the day, all of your endless hard work finally materialized into everything you wanted it to become.

“I am the **** of the ******* earth”

This was the day you destroyed yourself. You told me why.

“I turned to self destruction for solace, solace from everything I was expected to become being shoved down my throat, I wiped my *** with morality and dogmas, and I became the antithesis of what I was supposed to be, I ******* won.”

And with that you dropped to your knees in front of the coffee table, the transparency of its clear glass surface obstructed by five pristine white lines. Like perfect little white picket fences, surrounding perfect little yards that perfect little children would play their perfect little games while their perfect parents would do not so perfect things behind the doors of their perfect little houses.

And this is when I understood.

Your *****, messy, clumped-up hair offered a half veil for your face. A $1 bill hovered above the first line; your practiced anticipation was beautiful. God, I loved this part, because you loved this part. Just before that first hit, just before the euphoria expanded, washing over you, blanketing your lanky figure and troubled mind in bliss. Your last seconds on earth.

And this is when I understood.

Before long, all five lines were absent from the table, and making their way through your system, you were glowing. You raised yourself up and teetered on your 6-inch heels, your stick thin legs threatening to snap in half and cut you down. You wrapped your arms around me, you didn't say it, neither did I. Your eyelids fluttered and you batted your eyelashes. I don’t know if it was on purpose, but it was ****.

You walked to the balcony, I knew you wouldn't jump. You just stood there, impossibly high, in your impossibly high heels, at the impossibly great distance to the ground. Your tiny frame, illuminated perfectly by the glow of the electric bug zapper, it was the perfect analogy. Your spotlight was a killer, and your beauty was destruction.

The sun fell behind the horizon lines, and the crescent moon rose high in the sky.

“I’m going to lounge on that”

The stars were faintly visible though the light pollution.

“I’m going to find the flattest stars and skip them through galaxies.”

You had a bottle of ****** in one hand, a bottle of ***** in the other.

“I’m going to visit every planet; I’m going to live in their gutters.”

The bottles were both open, you set the ***** down, shaking out pill after pill into your open palm, you smiled.

“I’m going to meet an alien; I’m going to dance with him.”

A mouth full of ****** and a bottle of ***** to wash it down.

“I’m going to meet God, if there is such a thing.”

Hours passing, felt like seconds. You’re starting to slip, you’re starting to float up, up to all those promises you made to the moon, and the stars, and the aliens.

For the longest time, I couldn't tell if your lifelessness was figurative – conjured up by my perspective of what you are – or literal. I may have sat there for a long time, admiring the beauty of everything you worked so hard for. You looked the same, and I think that was beautiful. It was beautiful the way you epitomized ruination. How you massacred every conventional idea of what it meant to be alive and well. How you taught me that a sense of loss is only relative. I think it was beautiful the way you destroyed yourself.

where are the people
who can’t wake up in the morning
no matter how much sleep they get
and where are the people
that find such comfort in a cup of coffee
who turn to the black liquid sweetened and warm
where are the people
who spend hours alone, just the way they like it
but when someone reaches out,
such appreciation you won’t find in anyone else
and where are the people
who let words fall from their mouths like stones
and words from their pens like precious gems
where are the people
that find heroes in ordinary people
because miracles sound nice but are so unlikely
that the ordinary is just enough, thanks
and where are the people
that remembered to buy bread and cereal
and they let that fill them with such pride
maybe they’ll even get the laundry done too
or maybe that should wait til tomorrow
where are the people
who spend nights turning over in bed
or staring at computer screens
or  flipping pages of books
hoping that tonight, tonight they will go to sleep with good thoughts
and where are the people
who got told growing up that there was so many things they had to be
that now that it’s their turn to become
they are torn between expectation and desire and sheer ability
where are the people
who have already learned that there’s no such thing as an adult
who have realized we’re all making our way in a messed up world
with polite smiles and appropriate clothing
and we are all pretending like we have it together

where are the people
like me
because i think a little connection between us
would make us stop asking
“are there others like me?”

Oh, my,
The rumble of children.
Here they come,
To force the change,
Free from restraints,
These adult,
Checks and balances,
Leaping and yelping,
As if life were enough.
How dare they,
Remind me,
Of passions,
And moments,
When green,
Was just green,
And the leaves,
Were no more.
No chlorophyl.
No structure.
No odd oxygen factory.
Simple beauty.
And wonder,
Which you could hold,
In your hand.
And those hands!
Ah, the mystery!
No bones,
And no tendons,
Which ache,
And grow weary,
While you write,
In desperation,
The haunting muse,
Of troubled hearts.
How dare they!
The monsters!
They lift,
The veil,
Behind which,
I hide,
With my adult,
Sensibilities.

So little, it seemed,
In days of old,
Was required,
Or needed …
A moment to run.
An hour to play;
Alive …
And innocent,
Of the horrid,
Putrid content;

Leave me be.
I implore you.
A moment longer.
Your wide, shining eyes,
Tell the tale,
I cannot face.
The long, weary miles,
Which I faced,
With conviction,
Were a ruse where every step,
Took me farther,
From myself.
Leave me be,
For a moment.
I was caught,
Unawares.
I ache,
In remorse,
And am caught here …
Wandering.
A moment …
Is all I ask,
Wherein I’ll find,
Adult,
Control.

They leave,
For I’ve frightened them.
Without a word,
Or a jest.
Not a man.
Not a monster.
But a spirit,
Which doesn’t smile.
They will go,
And remember,
The thing,
By the lake,
Which stared at the water,
And glanced at the trees.
How I pray,
Fickle fate,
For their fortune,
And happiness.
Bring them not,
To this place,
Eons from now.
Show them not,
The soft horrors,
Of dreams,
And hope listing.
Show them not,
The water,
And its chemical,
Equation.
Show them not,
The trees,
And the oxygen,
They manufacture.
Show them not,
That putrid core,
Which they share,
With all men.