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It’s my funeral today. I’m scared to go.

After a couple hours, I’ll be on the ground with dirt on top of me. People will walk over me again.

I’m scared to go to the afterlife. I’m showing up today and I want to give everyone hugs and tell them I’m still here! But I can’t.

I’m gone. I’m pale with my makeup done and in my mother’s favorite dress that I owned. (I didn’t really like that dress) but that’s the dress I died in.

I overdosed in that dress. I wanted my mom to see me one more time while I was still able to be held in her warm loving arms.

I feel bad for passing the pain onto my parents.

But they are strong. Whenever they see a white dove they will know it’s me.

Time to go and see all the crying faces that made me do it.

There are so many people. Even the mean girls are crying. The jocks who used me and called me a **** is crying.

I miss them actually. I want to give everyone in the room a hug and tell them I’m still here!

But I can’t because it’s too late.

-Gillian Askeland
Emma and Jack
1 A.M.

Emma: “Hey you asleep…?”

Jack:  “…if I say yes… what happens?”

E: “Look, I think we should get a divorce.”

J: “From each other or from reality altogether?”

“Funny. Do you dream anymore?”

“Never. Last time was when Paddy died.”

“Your high school friend. The one who got shot by the cops?”

“Yeah. The night I found out I had a dream that went on for hours.”

“About him?”

“No, yeah, it was all about life after death, there were angels, big rooms, lots of light.”

“What happened again?”

“He robbed a bank. Paddy and a guy named Chris Ranier. They held up a bank, like with shotguns”

“Why? Why would a 17 year old middle class kid rob a bank?”

“His parents were down, not starving, so I don’t know.”

“Where did he die again?”

“At a bus stop. They were waiting for a bus. If the bus had been on time, the cops would never have found them. At least that’s what the cops said.”

“And the Chris kid lived?”

“Yup, took a bullet through the heart but he lived.”

“So our divorce.”

“Why do you want to get divorced again?”

“Research. I want to know how people react.”

“ To what?”

“To you and me. What happens when you tell someone you are divorced?”

“In my case women start to salivate.”

“Women don’t salivate. They plan.”

“They scheme you mean. I thought writers made stuff up.”

“Wrong. Writers discover, we ‘re explorers.”

“You know I’ve got an early morning…”

“Scheme is sexist by the way, just sayin’”

“So is salivate, sleep tight”
I love dialogue. Might explain why I don't talk to anyone.
 Dec 2017 Chamilla Colton
Viany
Love
 Dec 2017 Chamilla Colton
Viany
I wanted to write a lovely poem..
I ended up writing your name
When I had my first swimming lesson
My instructor told me
I was a feather
Afloat the shallow end of the pool

But this is not a swimming lesson
Nor is there an instructor
I am a heavy weight
Ready to dive into a treacherous sea

You are the sea
The water
And everything in it

I am ready to dive into you
Soul first
I just hope I don't drown
I Don't Like Guns...But

they make my husband feel
like a man and help him bond
with our sons.  

I don't like them or how he
describes the way they feel in
his hand:  "Better than a ***",  
I heard him confide to his pal, Joey...

but something has to protect  us.  
I mean it's our right to be on guard.  
It's our right.

My husband spends all his
time with his guns:  cleaning them,
polishing the barrels, studying their
details.  And talking...talking about
his gun rights, about his next NRA
meeting or  what happened at the
last or that he can't believe how
good the right gun in his hand feels.  

I don't like guns...they made me                   disappear.


Written for GUNS DON'T SAVE PEOPLE POETS DO:  DUELING WITH WORDS TO STOP GUN VIOLENCE. ..a Facebook group
 Dec 2017 Chamilla Colton
alex
when a boy shows you his hands
bare except for the dust
he’s begging you to look past
take them in yours.
squeeze them once.
twice.
say without speaking
that you understand that the valleys
in his palms were meant to cradle
shooting star wishes
that he’s allowed to still hope for.
when a boy shows you his eyes
of milk and crimson and melanin
a bloodshot vein for every night he can’t sleep
let him shut his eyelids.
say without speaking
that you understand that the black hole pinpricks
of his irises hold more than the universe
should allow.
when a boy shows you his soul
shivering but still working toward friction
iced over but still working toward melting
let him come to rest next to yours.
say without speaking
that you understand that he is lonely
and that his silence speaks volumes
and that you kept his treasure close
because you love him.
when a boy shows you his hands
show him your hands.
when a boy shows you his eyes
show him your eyes.
when a boy shows you his soul
show him that
this is a comfortable place to rest it.
when a boy shows you the hardness that shaped him
show him the softness
that you have in store.
k
I often wish I was the cigarette you used
on cold nights to calm you down
and forget the pain you had.
Lies sometimes come in nicotine laced toxic.
I wonder if you see how every lie you tell
is you committing suicide
right in front of me;
killing everything I see in you.
Craving the voice that suffocates me,
these nicotine laced lies.
You being addicted to drugs,
and I to you.
Addicted to the taste your words leave in my mouth.
There is supposed to be a difference between love and nicotine.
I often wish I was that cigarette.
Only then would you be letting me in.
So breathe me.
Written// Oct. 18, 2017 11:03am
There is a person
   Who has feelings
      Who is troubled
         Who does not deserve to die

               There is a person
                  Who makes me sad
                      Who makes me mad
                          Who does not deserve to die



There is a person
Who I want to hurt
Who I want to put in the dirt
Who deserves to die

He reminds me of myself
He can never be me
The first two were a lie
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