broken boy,
let me cradle your
mind; let me be the evacuation
center you resort to when your soul
needs some rescuing. i will save a place
for your heart right between
the fissures running through the canyon
my hands create.
these padded walls do nothing to stop
those dreams; they won't
slow your tears or comfort you when the terrors
are too heavy to bury on your own. they'll just
absorb those screams you've been suffocated
by, the ones that make you bite your lip until
waves of crimson pain crash and flow
and you can taste boiling iron trickling down the cracks
in your worn lips.
broken boy,
i can't fix you. if only i could.
i wish that i could **** your pain through my veins,
let it poison me so that you could be liberated from
the demons clawing at your walls.
i can't.
i can only offer comfort on those dark days, when the
restraints you've placed upon yourself drive you to the brink
of madness. i can soothe you when your fingernails are ******
stubs and the monsters strip you of your soul. i can
slow the gears in your mind and do more than the
ticking, whirring of a broken-down brain to aid your sanity.
white cushioned walls can't ease your worries. they don't
guarantee exorcisms, and there's a no return on your stay
inside this vacant chamber chock-full of shadows.
hold on, broken boy. i know you'll
find that light at---

darling
don't you know that you can't
protect them
forever?
don't you see that they are pulling
your soul out from under you,
dragging you down with anchors?
can't you see that they're coming for you?
do you see their scythes
made from silver and shadows and your nightmares?
do you already feel their teeth,
those glinting fangs oozing your blood?
don't you realize that you're trapped here,
locked between the jaws of Earth herself
and trapped by numbered chains
spelling out things you can't even read?
don't you see, my darling,
that you are a void?
with each pledge, fact, joke and aid you offer,
they reap your breaths until one becomes your
last,
until you're possessed,
locked away by your own brain.
darling, please learn that there are so few
bonds between people
that are made of the dust in both our
bones and the stars.
they will not tie you down
but lift you, tethering themselves to your Greatness
until you're afloat
until once again you breathe, free of toxins
and torturous elements.
don't you see that? can't you believe that?
you cannot fight this battle on your own.
you're the hero of your story, but even heroes
form alliances with others
in case they need a little help.
darling, it may take a village to raise a child.
in your case, it only takes loyalty to create
a lifeline.

"if you count to ten, do you feel
any lighter at all?"

another night. another set
of infinite numbers.
every one that i
count weighs down on me,
pressure building behind my eyes,
boulders on my shoulders
and shackles to my wrists.

another day. alienating
everyone.
pushing
for the sake of pushing,
kneading at pressure points -
boom.
pushing and pushing every button
like a kid in an elevator.
punching at raw material until it sags
and self-destructs, until they
whip back and attack me,
make me feel the anger and hatred -
oh, the hatred -
that i feel for myself.

because i want to feel this way.
i want to be alone, because
i deserve it.
i deserve tears and blood and burning.

i deserve isolation.

i am terrible.
i am not human.
i am the monster,
every form of it.
i am the oozing jealousy
and the sting of cruel
wit. i am the slow burning
loathing and the white hot
rage at something so inconsequential.
i am the deepest pit of
black and the void that
cannot be filled, that
vacuums every living thing
down into its belly.

i cannot feel lighter when
the whole of this world i've
swallowed rests on my
back.

no, i'm not lighter. i'm
weaker. the weakest, most
wicked beast
to roam these halls.

it is all too much.
all too much.

i deserve the weight.
let it drag me down into
black oceans, because
i won't fight it anymore.

Some blades sting
as they slice through skin;
laced with backhanded
compliments, a withering glance,
and the steady hand of
an executioner, they aim
to demolish, stick by stick
of explosive hatred.

Some blades have poisoned tips,
dipped in a brew so wicked
that it lurks from vein to vein
and blacks you out, strikes you
from existence by hijacking your senses
and drowning them with intense,
heady emotions like loneliness, and fear,
and fiery anger.

Some blades are disguised as a handshake,
one that grips and cracks your bones into splinters,
shards of what once was dignity
and pride. A grip that convinces you
to admit that you are nothing, that you are
less than, that you are inferior.

And then there is the blade,
tipped like a pen,
upon which I ****** myself. This
blade, unlike the others,
is choice and stupidity and release.
It is a forfeit, a crushing defeat
that the writers succumb to. It is this
blade, ink pouring from our pumping aortas
to our gnarled, stained fingertips
that dance across a page, that charm
our own minds with the drowsy lullabies
and delusions of omnipotence so that
we can spill the deepest, blackest pits
of our shriveled peach hearts
and spit them out into the universe.
A million voices collide and create the void
where we all end, where we all begin, and
forge the path of self-destruction it takes
to fish out a handful of temperate words,
biblical verses, even historic epics
to release ourselves of our woes
and of every singular thought.

Some blades are caused by the average,
the ones who would not ****** a dagger
through their chest, not even
for the truth.
But our blade, the wicked fiend,
sweeps through every bone and ligament
until she reaps what is due;
the words you're reading,
my thoughts scattered out
for you.

it's been a lonely night
the stage has been set for fright
with gaping pits full of twisting slides
my heart is trapped on this ******* ride

this soul is heavy with black marks
permanent testaments to my wicked heart
and so i'm the hidden show in town,
where they gawk upon the freaks

in the black of the night i dare not put up a fight
and the circus clowns tie me down
but with you as my ghost
they're forced to slit my throat

and like us, the facade comes crumbling down

demented and sick, you smile something sick,
prize fighter of my mind.
you sneer with my eyes, my lips twist with lies
and poison dances across my lips.

you wicked teeth gleam, sink into my skin
but like a light, i slip
heavenly waves crash across my brain
blurring the edges and lines

you press against me and i implode,
and as the blood rain falls
your cackle reverberates in a mirrored hall
as i'm dragged down,
         down
into the chasm of fire

i blame you.

the demon, my midnight muse,
the human with fangs, a vampire in plaid,
you monster,
you boy,
you mutt with a chew toy,
you impertinent child,
who stomps and quakes
holy ground.

Dear Charlie,
Nothing worthwhile is easy, right?
I've heard it before, a thousand different ways.
So that must mean that living is worthwhile
because it's hard. It's so ******* hard,
and it's like I'm fighting my apathy
every single second
while being chased around by the frenzy,
comprised of responsibilities and expectations
and that look in my mother's eyes when
she's proud.
I'm trying though. I'm trying
to get better.
This year was better than last year,
because I didn't swim a black sea.
I merely floated,
and only once was I pulled down.
In a month, I resurfaced.
I'm stronger, I think. I might have
that infamous Achilles' heel,
somewhere inside this ice cold, stone heart.
But the monsters didn't keep me,
didn't ruin any holidays,
didn't even make me consider
swallowing little white pill after little white pill.
I'm not perfectly healed, or even three quarters
okay. But I'm getting there,
Charlie.
You know what I mean.

In the next year,
I don't want to dream
to be happy. But I do want
to be even happier.
I want to do something,
whatever that may be.
And I want to see so many things,
and appreciate life.
I'm getting there, Charlie. I'm finding
my way there.
My only resolution next year
is to be able to say,
"I made it. I'm doing better.
I can live. And breathe.
I am going to be okay."
And that's more than enough,
isn't it, Charlie?

I.
when i look at you,
i feel a mixed reaction
as emotions collide
inside this feeble cavity we call
a chest. in general,
there are three things -
the three, most important things -
that cross my mind.

II.
butterflies. my stomach drops,
on its own personal roller coaster,
engineered by your smile.
another part of it drops because we
dance around each other, on tiptoes,
sometimes painfully. other times, we are
one, and in sync. and occasionally
we are both lost in separate worlds,
lost in thoughts and dreams.
i don't believe in prayer, but maybe
you could pray for me.

III.
desolation. loss and grief course
through tired, worn veins. already, you're
intangible. sitting right beside me,
i'm hindered by the space between us, the span of
space and infinity and this parallel universe we're
trapped inside. with time passing at snail's speed and
slipping away at jet speed, i can't
hold on. you're still here, still a concrete noun,
but you feel like an abstract dream, a haunting
memory. if you look out the window someday,
and you catch sight of the moon,
i hope it reminds you of me.

IV.
greed and begging and hope. all of it, every feeling,
encased in my thinly veiled heart. the strongest of
fortifications can't suppress my petty,
jealous words and my leveling glare. these feelings,
though unwarranted, are mine. you should be mine.
i wish my fate line crossed yours, but i'm starting to see,
trying to convince myself,
that we aren't meant and these worlds don't match. i can almost
believe it, and deep down i know it's true. i know that we can't
exist, not based on likes and dislikes when what we want,
where we want to go,
are so diverse and specific that it
(we) would never work.

V.
still, the overwhelming feeling
that sparks my reactors
is that gnawing, pleading one.
the one that i have to choke down
in an effort to make things semi-okay.
the one where i tell you everything,
and apologize, and explain my reasons
for it all. the one where i tell you i miss you,
where i tell you i will miss you,
where i say i can't imagine life without you.
the one where i confess this pathetic,
undying devotion,
even when i know this is the last
time i'll ever see you
again.

VI.
you won't ever pray for me,
or think of me when your vision
latches on to the moon. we won't ever speak
again, because that isn't how it is,
not with us.
i miss you.
don't leave.
don't go.
stay.

VII.
please, i'm begging you,
get out.
be everything you want.
do everything you need to.
and above all,
be the superstar,
the exploding supernova,
the entire galaxy
that you are.