The death of a child
Cannot be portrayed into words
But only understood
By the deepest trenches of the heart

The moon hung its head low in the night sky
A perfect circle to personify infinity
Whether it was the message of a spirit
Or a coincidental language of the planets
We will never know

Something tugged on my spine
To turn around, and meet the eyes of a ghost
A mirror, I thought
For it was the ghost that I saw in my eyes
During my personal ice-age

A stranger alone, but
Not as strange as the loneliness
Of the aftermath of death
Do I dare speak?
To harvest hidden emotions of the past?

I spoke meek and astutely
Then stepped out of my skin
To show him my crooked spine
Because rotted bones and knotted arteries
Speak for themselves

He understood that I apprehended
That a grave for one is a grave for two
One for their body, and one for your heart
A weeping embrace in place
Of lost words stolen by mortality

Perhaps I was too blunt
But I do believe that when the stars
Run away from the night sky
And into someone's eyes
They should know
That very few people
Get to witness that fiery gaze

How sad it is to be anything at all. How sad it is to love anything at all, to leave it all behind. And laying with your heart beside mine, I wonder, have our souls ever crossed paths before? I think of all the nights I wondered the streets as a zombie, or perhaps a vampire at that. Searching for anyone to **** the life out of so I could regain my own.
How sad it is to walk through a door and hear the clicking of the lock behind you.
How sad it is to wish death upon myself so I will never have to love again.
But, I do know better this time.
You could cut off my limbs and I would still find a way to fill these pages.
I hunger only for written words, and to hold and be held in return.
It would be so much easier to look at you through closed eyelids, than to see your broken eyes.
The look of a lost child, it takes one to know one.

I wish I could show you what I see
Much more than pathless woods or ****** hearts
But, a bond I have built with the stars.
I love my stars just as I love my sister.
Even after they die, I can still see them shining bright.
I am aware that one by one, their light will no longer be; I'll have to survive the night on my own.
I envy the strength of the stars, possibly even hate. In the darkest of times, they shine to bright. Perhaps to taunt me for the nights I hid in the shadows of streetlamps.

Where are you?
Not physically.
Release the strings of your heart.
Where are you?
Push it. More. More. Make it hurt. Leave your body under the covers next to mine.
Where are you now?
Think of the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.
Where are you now?
What do you feel?
I should hurt, it should not hurt.
Run. Run. Run.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
Where are you now?
Where am I?
Ashes upon ashes.
Not beneath the ground, but in the air that wrapped around our summer skin.
Why?
Because I was with you.
It was a disgusting happiness,
and I jumped before it could drop me.
Where am I now?
In the stars.
I can see your teary eyes searching for my light.

But I had loved you all along.
It was my bitter fear that derived from an unloving father that turned his back on my mother and I when we needed it the most.
I hate him just as much as I love him.

How sad it is to be anything at all.
If I ever decide to jump again, you ought to let me fall.

When you live through depression, you lose your sense of time.
The days and nights drag on for so long that eventually everything runs together.
You can't tell the difference between the sunrise and sunset, six o'clock in the morning or six o'clock at night.
Right and wrong, love and hate, white and black; everything fades to gray.

So when someone tells you that it will get better in time, all you can do is shake your head.
And the days that you spend missing someone, will always feel like years.

I am not a writer. I am millions of atoms carrying energy from my heart to my
fingertips. And I thank this pen for its generosity, and I beg forgiveness from
this paper. I am not a writer; I simply bleed ink that shifts its shape to help
others comprehend. I and my words are separate beings; they wanting to be
understood, and I wanting to simply be heard. I will speak in a monotone whisper
to see who comes closer. Who will still be around when my voice is gone? The
voices in my mind are far more articulated and wise than the language I mumble
and wail. I am a book without a book mark and a chapter without a title. My
pages stay unnumbered to mirror my days. And so, maybe I am not a novel they
will teach you about in grammar school. I am no fairy tale or wise man.  I am a
book with far too many typos and not enough white-out. I am a diary full of
secrets, a journal filled with information. I am a bible, I am my only savior.
But it will never be an autobiography, because I am not a writer.