My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the ***** rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Overbearing,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
Loudly,
Unavoidably,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
Pulling,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.

Let’s all go back to before we were broken.
Before love turned to lie,
Before lie turned to die,
Before die turned to live.
I would rather die today than live another day of this death.

My voodoo doll is being held by a God I don’t believe in and he’s picking at my mind with a needle,
Injecting my brain with a chemical imbalance that makes it so it doesn’t matter whether my eyes are open or closed,
I always see the same darkness.

I didn't really begin to notice until I began to notice that people were beginning to notice.
This is truly,
the most stubborn nothing I have ever not felt.

In seventh grade,
my best friend fell asleep to lullabies sung by a blade that she never seemed to remember the next morning.
She didn't talk about her feelings much,
but when she did she said it seemed like I was the only one who remembered the next morning,
and I did.
After I got her help,
she called me her savior.
I never really understood how much that meant.
I told myself I would never feel pain the way she did.

In grade eight, my other best friend's sister swallowed a bottle of pills,
searching for an end.
After she returned from two weeks in a mental institution,
telling the story of a girl who called out names without faces,
the story of a little boy who had voices inside his head telling him to **** his own parents,
I tried my hardest not to think she was just as crazy as he.
I told myself I would never feel pain the way she did.

You see,
in the end,
everyone turns out to be the person they'd sworn they'd never become.

Because now,
the hiss of silver splitting skin whispers in my ear and sings me to sleep.
I've held bottles of pills in my hands,
searching for an end.

I don't know what to do,
because the end everyone seems to want me to have is monumental,
and very far away.

What do you do,
when your misery has become a reflection on a window?
Transparent, but clear,
if you only try hard enough to see it.
No one has tried hard enough to see it.

I've mastered the art of forgetting.
On the good days,
I can't seem to remember what happiness feels like the next morning,
and I start to feel pain the way they did.

I've started,
thinking outside of the lines my life is written in,
so I know what the dead know.
People lie to themselves about death.
Don't truly accept that it's going to happen until it happens.
And yet, they believe in a white light and a golden gate.

Let me tell you,
death is not beautiful.

If it truly was,
you would want to die just as much as me.

It's not the dark that scares me
or what is under my bed
it's who's in it
because I know myself
and that's the worst part.

Man of the past
looks of the future
And spits with his mouth

maybe he's mad
maybe he's sad

maybe his fear of clocks
maybe his fear of time
will get the better of him

She walked her plank.
She was still afraid to drown as her great withered ship sank.
The sea whispered softly as salt water mixed with tears,
Darling, don’t be nervous,
We’re the perfect pair,
You’re welcome here.

She looked up from the water that licked at her feet,
And saw the boy that she loved as their tortured eyes did meet.

His hair ran rampant and blood pooled from his wrists,
And yet he still smiled and blew her a kiss.
“Come on, love,
Don’t look so blue.
I may be dying,
But I’m dying with you.”

She couldn’t help but giggle,
As music screamed in her ears.
She never liked heavy metal,
But it seemed like what a person committing suicide would hear.

She sunk further into the bathtub that was a vast sea,
As more of his blood stained the tile once pristine.
They shared silent nostalgia of a love so traumatic.
Who knew a ****** bathroom floor could be so romantic?

As water enveloped the tip of her nose,
Over her face floated the petal of a rose.
And that was the death bed in which she would lay,
Until someone stumbled upon her shipwreck someday.

Her ship ****** her down into a dark aether,
And the plank that held her last step sank down with her.
As her last breath bubbled up from below,
The love of her life whispered death a “Hello.”

The most beautiful love is created through the most horrendous pain,
Now only the story of two will remain.