My veins have turned to vines
And my bones have turned to branches
And my organs have turned to stone
And my brain has turned to ashes.

You touched my face
The way an artist
Touches a blank canvas,
As though I had all the
Potential in the world,
And it was in your hands.

I am nature's child,
With hair the color
Of the dirt I was
Born from and
Eyes the color
Of emeralds.

I am nature's child,
With hair the color
Of the sand I was
Formed from and
Eyes the color of
The ocean I will
Drown in.

I am nature's child,
With hair the color
Of the coal I was
Carved from and
Eyes the color of
The sun on a hazy
Monday morning.

I am nature's child,
With hair the color
Of the flames I burst
Out of and eyes the
Color of the hole
I will fall into.

I am nature's child.

It was 4:22 in the afternoon.
He had gotten out of work late
Because his boss decided to wait
Until the last minute to drop an atom
Bomb of files on his desk to be sorted.
His fingers burned from the cuts
Like residual radiation.
His coffee mug, emptied
Except for the last few, chilled
Drops, rested on his lap.
He hadn't been able to make
It to the public bus stop in time
So he jumped aboard the nearest
Subway train, found a seat in the
Middle of the next to last car,
And eyed his route on the
Map like a pinball in a machine.

For the first thirty minutes,
He stared intently at his mug,
Studying the smudges around the
Opening where his lips had been
Pressed into like a soft kiss.
It took him back to a time when
Kisses were like currency between
Him and his ex-lover, and each
Were more than generous.
Just as he began to imagine
The way her silk bra felt on his
Fingertips, a foul odor passed by the
Tip of his nose without saying excuse me.
His eyes searched the car until they
Fell upon the teenager sitting just six
Seats down, a white cylinder fitted between
Her fingers like a pencil tucked behind the ear.
"Excuse me, miss. You're not allowed
To smoke here."
His hand waved absently in front
Of his face in an attempt to
Dissipate the smell while her hand
Waved absently in his direction
In an attempt to dissipate his presence.
"I already know this."
His brow furrowed as he
Watched her take another hit,
Blowing the smoke out her nose.
"Then put it out, please."
She lifted her eyes from the novel
Clutched in her other hand
Before replying.
"I don't think I will."
If it had been any other day,
At any other time,
He would have
Dropped the
Subject.
But his mind was
Warped with toxic fumes,
And his vision was cloudy,
His legs were shaking.
He slid down the conjoined seats
Until he was only three spaces
Away from her annoyed posture.
"Now listen, dear. This is a subway,
A form of public transportation,
Not a coffee shop where you can
Just flick your ashes onto every
Available surface.
There are families aboard
This car, families who shouldn't
Be forced to inhale your second-hand smoke."
He took a deep breath, eyeing her expression.
She flipped a page and continued reading,
The cigarette hanging from her lips
Like a diver poised to jump.
"Excuse me, miss, but.."
Just as he had begun speaking,
She tossed her book on the empty
Seat beside her and leaned forward,
Resting her elbows on her knees
As she gazed intently at him.
"I don't imagine you're one of
Those self-righteous types who
Boss people around on principle,
So I'm going to explain this to you."
She held up her cigarette in front
Of her face, forcing him to look,
Despite his stunned expression.
She pointed to the padded,
White area where the
Imprint of her lips resided.
"You see this? I call this happiness.
This is every boy I ever kissed,
Every apology I didn't mean,
Every argument I won,
Every smile that ever
Stretched across my face."
She pointed to the dark,
Crumbled substance at the end.
"This is what I call misery.
This is every heart I ever broke,
Every dollar I ever stole,
Every cut I ever
Inflicted on
Myself."
She held
The cigarette
Loosely in her
Fingers as she spoke.
"If you notice, as I smoke it,
The misery goes up on smoke,
And the happiness remains."
She tossed it across the car.
"Some people have scrapbooks
Where they keep their memories
So they can refer to them as
Often as they please.
Some people go to therapy
To hash out every feeling they
Refuse to deal with. But I
Live with my memories,
And I carry them with
Me, but when the
Miserable ones
Seem to overtake
The happy ones. I simply
Smoke them away. So if you
Are so insistent on taking away
My cigarettes, then I suggest you
Burn every scrapbook and pencil
And pill bottle you can find,
Because this is my escape."
She leaned back in her
Seat, staring authoritatively.
His lips parted several times before
He reached into his pocket and removed
An orange bottle with a white cap.
He twisted the top off and
Poured a single pill
Into his empty hand.
"The yellow side is
Every girl I fell in love with
Every vacation I ever took
Every baseball game I
Ever watched.
The red side
Is every girl
Who broke my heart.
Every day I see my boss.
And every evening I
Sit alone in the dark."
He tucked the pill back
Into the bottle like he was
Putting a child to sleep.
She eyed him curiously,
Watching as he fondled
The bottle in his hand.
"This is my escape."
His eyes lifted,
Meeting hers.
"I'll trade you."
Pursed lips met
With indecision
Until she pulled
Her pack of cigarettes
From her leather purse
And tossed them on his lap.
"We're all dying slowly anyway."

Two lovers
Standing on the side
Of a ship, peering down
To the sea below.

I was the southern belle
With one hand on my coin purse
And the other on my cap, holding
It in place despite the breeze
Sweeping off the sea.

You were the southern gentleman
One hand in your pocket, toying with
Your antique watch that always seemed to
Be a minute late, and the other on the
Railing, keeping you steady as you
Squint ahead in an attempt to
Separate the seams of
Sky and sea.

A wave of mass proportion
Heaves the ship to one side,
Causing me to slip from the
Balcony and into the railing.

You immediately tear your eyes
From the sky and into mine as you
Reach for me, grabbing my hands
And attempting to pull me to safety.

But the ship leans,
And I slide over the side,
Your hands the only thing
Anchoring me to anything.

You are under the impression
That you can pull me in, but the
Sea has something else in mind.
It rocks the ship, throwing me
Against the side and then
Tossing me back out again.

Your eyes are desperate,
Your grip is sturdy,
But your body is
A victim of
Gravity.

I can feel you
Leaning further
Over the side, your
Eyes still searching mine.

I know that
If I continue to
Hold the hand that
Has always saved me,
It will only endanger you.

So I pull
My fingers
From your grasp
And watch your eyes
As I fall to my death, but
I know that I have saved you.

A young girl
Walking down a hallway
Surrounded by people who
Are the same age
Scared, confused and alone
She's fifteen

A young girl
Walking down a hallway
Surrounded by people who
Are different ages
Scared, confused and alone
She's fifteen

A young girl
Peeking into her bag
And opening a note
That her ex-boyfriend wrote
When he loved her,
He doesn't anymore

A young girl
Peeking into her bag
And opening a card
That mother bought
When she cared,
She still does

A young girl
Walking home
Toying with the blade
She keeps in her purse
She thinks of dying
And ending the hurt

A young girl
Walking "home"
Toying with the tubes
Tethered to her veins
She thinks of living
And running again

A young girl
Lying in her bed
Thoughts of demons
And darkness entering her head
She eyes up the pills beside her
Then takes them

A young girl
Lying in her bed
Thoughts of cute boys
And field trips entering her head
She eyes up the pills beside her
Then takes them

Two young girls
In hospital beds
One wanting to die
And one wanting to live
One confined to the sheets
And one able to leave
They're fifteen

One young girl
Gets out of bed
And places a flower
Near the other girl's head
And the other girl smiles
And asks if she's dead
"Of course not silly,
You're very much
Alive, so go to
School and
Learn something
And stop wanting to die
Because it's not your time."

The other girl says,
"I'll leave if you do.
I'll go back to school
If you go back too."

One young girl smiles,
"I wish I could go,
I'd give anything to
Go back and live
On my own. But my
Bones are brittle and
Won't let me leave,
So you go and you
Live life for me."

Two young girls
Finally freed
One walking
Through hallways
One walking
On golden streets
One with her head high
And her razor shattered
One with strong bones
And cute boys beside her.

She sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor,
A brush in one hand and a blade in the other.

She ran the brush through the dull brown,
Dishwater hair that framed her thin face.
Her eyes were sunken in from a recent loss of appetite
(Recent as in the past twenty-four months)
And her cheek bones protruded from her skin
Like the fist of an unborn fetus reaching out.

She fingered the blade in her other hand,
Memorizing each corner and edge,
Pressing it against the pad of her fingertips
And feeling the skin give.

She put down the brush (but not the blade)
And stretched out her legs on the hardwood
Studying her translucent skin and
The waterways of veins that ran beneath
And the concave curves of her knobby knees.

She traced the faint lines
On her paper thin thighs
Made from dull blades
From previous days.

Her failed attempts numbered
More lines than cracks in the
Floorboards, but not this time.
Not anymore.

She lifted the razor to her wrist
And whispered a silent prayer
Between shaking lips and
Closed her eyes and
Pulled back her hand.

She waited.
And waited.
She opened her eyes.
She cautiously looked down
To see a **** running
Vertically down her arm.
But nothing was pouring out
As it should have been.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

The blade hit the floor as she bolted out of her room,
And down the stairs and into the kitchen.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

Her mother was sitting at the table
With a cold cup of coffee sitting sadly beside her,
But it wasn't her mother,
But the shell of the mother she once knew.
Her eyes were bloodshot and her hands were bony
And her nose was red and her fingers were swollen.
And sitting in a high-chair beside her,
Was a child with wide-eyes and
Shrilling laughter.

The child seemed to sense her presence
For it looked into her eyes,
And it gave her goosebumps.

She ran to her mother and
Waved her hands in front of her
But her mother didn't seem to register
Her daughter before her.

"Mom! Mom? Can you hear me?"
But she didn't make a sound.

She noticed a picture on the refrigerator
So she slowly approached it.
It was a 5 x 7 of her sophomore year,
Six months before her disease appeared.
Her face was full and her hair was long,
Her eyes were bright and her smile was strong.
She could hardly recognize herself, anymore.

She noticed another picture beneath,
A newspaper clipping dated September thirteenth
The first day she ever played
"Trace the Vein"
With her blade.

And right beside the headline titled
"Young Teen Commits Suicide"
Was the picture of her full face
From sophomore year.

She screamed.
But she didn't make a sound.

She felt a throbbing in the back of her head
Like a hand nudging her brain,
Or a distant, forgotten memory,
Trying to resurface again.
But she shoved it back in.

She ran back to her mother,
Again waving her hands.
"Mom! Can you hear me? I'm sorry,
I never meant for this to happen."
But her mother was quiet
And the baby just stared.

She turned back to the staircase
But her knees started to shake
And she fell to the ground,
Tears streaming down her cheeks.
Like streaks of fire,
They started to burn.

And she screamed
And she screamed
But she didn't make a sound.

She lifted her hand,
To wipe the tears from her eyes,
But her hand was breaking,
And cracking and dying.

She watched her fingers
And then her skin
And then her veins
And then her bones
Break like brittle and
Fall to the ground in a
Mound of dirt and ash.

Her hair drifted down
Like dead leaves in the fall
And her rib cage cracked like
A crumbling wall
And her body caved in
And she wilted away
Because she was already dead
And buried in her earthen grave.

Stage One - Experimentation:
I've seen it before, on movies and television shows.
The peer pressure, the giving in, the going back again.
And that's exactly what it felt like to me.
The pressure of your hand against the small of my back,
The way my body fell apart at your touch,
Like an ancient foundation crumbling,
And the desire that stirred in my chest to feel your touch once more.
At first, I only wanted a taste of you.
But the thrill that you brought me was something not easily forgotten.

Stage Two - Regular Use:
It became a casual thing,
Feeling you coursing through my bloodstream.
A knock on the door like the prep of a needle,
And your hand pulling me in like the ***** of skin,
And within seconds, a high I couldn't recognize,
As though I was walking on the sky and the
Grass was tickling my eyelashes,
And your fingers were pressed
Into the dimples in my hips.

Step Three - Risky Use/Abuse:
Before I knew it,
I was lying awake,
Wide-eyed in bed at night,
Imagining your fingertips
Tracing the inside of my thighs.
So I brought my pillow and blanket
And pitched a tent at the foot of your bed.
Then swore to myself I'd never leave your house again.

Step Four - Drug Dependency:*
A minute without your breath against my neck
Causes my chest to burn and my knees to shake,
But every time your breath fills my lungs,
I can feel the years of my life falling away.
Your lips are my nourishment,
Your sighs are my fluids,
And your kiss is my IV drip.
Every part of you has consumed every inch of my thoughts,
Even the dusty corners I have forgotten about,
And with every gentle touch, I can feel the withering of my heart,
Like a flower never to bloom again,
But it's a beautiful destruction.

Whatever you do,
Don't fall in love
With loveless boys.

The boys who stay awake
Until 4 am taking long drags
On cigarettes and blowing
The smoke into the wind.

The boys who down bottles
Of whiskey at a time and
Wipe their mouths with their
Sleeves, eyeing you from
Across the room as they do.

The boys who frequent
Alleyways and rooftops
And libraries because
They are anything but
Ordinary.

The boys who watch you
Fall in love with them and
Don't feel a **** thing
For you as you do.