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Everyone you have lost is gone forever.  
If you try to call the dead, the phone won’t ring.
You won’t hear their voices.
The ground will shake like your wrists.
You will realize this sometime, when you’re in the bath and every nerve in your body is screaming at you to put your head under and count to a thousand.
You are more than a suicide note.
You are more than a suicide attempt.
You are more than cuts and bruises, and friends that abandon you and don’t even say hello in the hallways anymore.
People will leave you, daughter. People will leave you alone and shaking.
You’ll find solace in the most unexpected places, in the boys that look like they belong in the 1970s and in the vinyl that whispers to you while the sun is going down.
Eventually you will find the people that will bend the sky down to you so that you can touch the clouds.
They will become your motivation, they will become the glow in the dark stars on your bedroom ceiling.
You will forget that they are plastic, and often mistake them for the night’s sky.
Memories do not always hurt, it’s okay to be nostalgic but do not drown in it.
Do not drown in anything but love, daughter.
Love every leaf, every lover’s vein.
And every single time you think you’re going insane.
You’re not.
Remember that the door is always closed, but always easily opened.
Remember that you can leave.
Remember that you can take the next flight out, start a new life.
Remember that the world is in your piano hands.
You’ll meet someone and call them love because they don’t know the difference between the dull and sharp edge of a knife.
You’ll write poems.
Lots of them.
You’ll write enough poems to fill the walls in all of the rooms in all of the houses you have ever lived in.
You’ll scrawl them on the tree stumps you find temporary homes in while walking in the forest.
You’ll engrave them on someone’s bones after they tell you that they would rather die a thousand deaths than go a second without your energy warming their cheeks.
For every accomplishment, erase five shortcomings from your mind.
Be yourself before you forget who that is.
Be, daughter, be who you want to be;
Be who you know yourself to be.
When the world is sleeping on your shoulders at 4 in the morning, don’t wake it up.  
Take a deep breath, rock the earth into a deeper sleep.
Tell the walls your secrets because they don’t whisper.
Don’t tell anyone with a tongue something you wouldn’t want to end up floating back out of their mouths like a catchy song.
When you’re standing up on stage, waiting to start your poem, do not avoid eye contact.
Make everyone nervous with your metaphors.
Make everyone nervous with your passion.
You are the strongest soul you’ll ever be.
And when I die, shall we not meet again,
Remember that I am your mother, daughter.
And mothers, *always know best.
this is for my writer's craft class
You came to me when I was enraptured in
the art of drowning myself,
in half-full ***** bottles
and bathtubs full of bleach.
You became a personal sanctuary,
safer than the four walls of the churches
I was always denied entrance to,
due to misadventures as a young child
and community rumours which I knew not how
to rid myself of.
 Aug 2013 Asphyxiophilia
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.
 Aug 2013 Asphyxiophilia
Oh, father.
how lucky I was to have one,
that's what they told me at least.
the sound of shouting in the den was
my only glimpse of your presence.
the chair that was just Yours,
stood always crooked.
you once left crumbs behind of meals
I spent hours baking.
these nightmares, you spent years making.
broad smile faking.
firm hand shaking.

Oh, father.
I was six years old and you tucked me in.
sang to me of guitars.
and learning how to make them talk.
but where were you
when I learned how to walk?
I ran out of things to hold on to,
when all I needed was your hand.

Oh, father.
I was ten years old and you came to my door.
it was unlocked.
you never knocked.
now Sirens on a Tuesday Night
are just an average thing.
and all that I know now is
the problems that they bring.

as you lay under blankets,
like ropes,
with a soft face and a firm voice
I stared into fluorescent lights and prayed.
even though,
you took my faith.
I was twelve years old
and the lines of people waiting to see you
were straighter than the ones
I had carved into my arms.

Oh, father.
I was there when you wasted away
in your hospital bed.
and I wonder of those pale white lights
made me look as dead as you did
when I vomited years of lies
and secret screaming.
and fourteen pills too many.
maybe prayers could've saved me.
but God knows I couldn't try anymore.
 Aug 2013 Asphyxiophilia
a boy once told me he could feel my energies
and i asked him how that worked
and he said it was impossible to explain

since then I've been thinking of things that are impossible or impossible to explain

like the way teenage girls obsess over trying to get boys to fall in love with them or even just short bursts of favoritism from them rather than trying to find their way around the forest of little Yggdrasils that make up their own dispairing minds

or the way that stars and angels fall from their perches in the heavens (on accident (or on purpose)) and not many are able to see them for what they are (it's nigh inhuman to see someone for what they are) and how those same people who can peer into their heart of hearts seem to still fall in love with them (those dying stars, fallen angels, risen demons, broken supernaturalities) and their obvious failure at being what they were born to be (yes, there is such thing as failing at being what you are, many fail at being human (truly or at least believe they have) everyday, and as one of the the lowest on the echelon the only place we have left to turn to is death)

a boy once told me he could feel my energies
and i wont ask him how that could be true anymore
because i know it's impossible to explain but not impossible to do

because now i think of things that are thought of as impossible by all (by the majority of the sentient beings in this realm)

and i realize that there are many girls who have already conquered their mind forests but have determined that they are not brave enough to venture any further into the darker places so they turn to building gates of lust and ultimately building a castle of love to take refuge in and also that there is only this brief period of time between childhood and adulthood that the darkness pulls many in and forces them to explore and many are lucky to escape and only some fall fate to their more eldritch thoughts and decide to explore and few truly embrace it

and i realize that some people fall into broken, brittle love with a fallen angel or any exiled supernatural despite the fact that they have failed in everything that they were born to do and forced to live in this new reality, this ugly humanity. these people who are burdened with realizing that their new love will be unrequited and that their new love is not as new as they want to believe. it's as old as spacetime itself- lowly creatures falling for higher creatures that are just as low.

just like the boy who once told me that he could feel my energies
(and his fallen angel and his giving up of his soulheart to be hers if only for the while that it takes her to regrow her wings (i realized he wasn't focused on building castles of anything, but maybe a tower for her to lift off from, even if it meant she left him, she would be free (and he would follow her to freedom, i believe)))
just like how I'm trapped in the dead middle of my own mind trying to figure out whether i want to escape inward into the beautiful crumbling dark that awaits me or back out into the world where nobody will care that i returned from my own internality (because so did many of them (none of us are as special as we want to believe we are))

impossibility is impossible.
for Quis; idk; tentative title
I'm not sure if it was a drunken idea,
or one of ecstatic stupidity,
but finally, from indirect jokes
we took to the alley,
greasy and haunting in itself,
we crossed the deathly narrow lane
to the tattoo place.

Neon-lit and consumed in the atmosphere
of alcohol and some illegal drug somewhere,
we picked out the incomplete chain--
one for you and one for me--
so that when our bodies came together,
we completed each other.

We completed each other.

You got yours and I got mine.

And now a year later,
you have had yours removed,
and are now thinking why you got one in the first place.

But you never knew, did you?

I didn't just love you,
I loved you for who you were,
for all you were,
for all you had been.

I wasn't just a stupid girl,
filled with the butterflies of first loves.
I was in love with you.
Fallen, completely.

You left your scars.
You left your scars.

You would never know, now would you?

That while you were looking away,
I got mine
in permanent ink.

**We completed each other.
I can barely complete myself.
If I thought I was losing you I wouldn't beg you to stay
I'd say that when you breathe, I see stars because I imagine your heart inside your body pumping blood
to your veins and your lungs expanding and letting go and all I can think of is how I never want to be your lungs
because I could never let go of your air.

I'd tell you that your eyes put the northern lights to shame.
That I've been everywhere and nowhere feels more at home than
sitting on the curb of a street in a city I don't know with you by my side.

If I thought I was losing you I would tell you that I'm not one
for love poems, but the sound of you saying my name is enough to make me think of red roses and blue violets.
And that when you touch me the roses are blue and the violets are red
and everything painful inside my head doesn't matter.

If I thought you were going to leave I wouldn't ask you to stay,
I'd tell you that every word that comes from your mouth leaves me breathless;
That there are little caves in your body and I picked a temporary home in your larynx
so you could always feel me in the words you're nervous to say.

I'd let you know that my whole life I've been searching for myself,
and amidst the shadows I found your bright eyes, and I lost my senses there...
and found them as well.

I want to tell you that all I need is you and a record player.
That music runs through my veins, and right next to Every Grain of Sand
and my love for Bob Dylan, you're there.
Shining through my bloodstream, leading the way to my heart.

If I thought I was losing you, I wouldn't beg you to stay.
I'd say that you're the best and worst thing that has ever happened to my poetry.
That I find metaphors in the notches of your spine,
that I play them like a piano.
And most of all, above all these things,
I'd say darling don't go, I'll miss you.
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