fingers flirt with the flames
of a feeling I don’t understand.
lighter fluid coats my hand and
I don’t bother to wash it off.
tears begin when my parents yell
because twenty years of
abuse, alcohol, and neglected anxiety
takes its toll on the adult mind.
‘i’m over it,’ i say as i drink
my second beer of the day
at nine in the morning.
i light a cigarette and
catch on fire and hope
my parents forgive me enough
to realize not everything is my fault.
my net worth is three sheets
of crumpled paper and
an empty shot glass.
i am not pretending to be
anything refined, sophisticated,
worth your time.
i’ve ruined the best things in my life
without even realizing it, absence the
only clue; there was no bother to tell me.
i am left with flaws but i am not sure
what they are because I’m too
much of a liability to be told.
there are empty matchboxes strewn
all upon my cluttered mattress
with holes burnt into it.
i have a tin lunch box full of
dead lighters; six years worth.
i never throw them away.
my bad habits exist in
every flameless flick.
will you increase my net worth
by leaving a pack of Marlboros in
my mailbox? i might not be deserving
of an explanation, but it would be
a nice peace offering. if you add
a lighter to the mix, i’ll make sure
the amethyst fades and you
no longer dream of me.
no love, no oxygen,
peaceful memories will
soon greet me, shielding me
from pain, from the world.
let me go. let me go.
am i here for your
amusement? do you
find it funny that i’m
choking out words
with blood on my arms?
go to hell
and i’ll see you there.
i just found this in my folder; don't remember writing it, but here it is.
my shoes are caked
with brown mud and
my arms have new burns.
getting high alone in the woods
is fine until the paranoia sets is
and the trees i love on lsd
become my hated enemies.
i find a book of matches on
the ground, twenty minutes
after my lighter died.
they are wet and do not light.
the cigarette between my lips
dangles there, before falling
into the mud i trudge through.
i use my own name in vain
and try to pretend that
losing my lucky isn’t unlucky.
the title was given to me as a prompt by a friend
yesterday i got blood on my jeans
from opening the scrape on my knee
i got three days ago, slipping in the shower,
drunk as hell before noon.
my dad told me to leave the rest of his beer
after i took five in twenty four hours.
i wonder if he realizes how bad i am.
i have to have at least one drink
before i see anyone, just to loosen up.
i drink throughout the day,
not caring what time i start.
my boy expressed concern
about all my empty beer cans.
i decided six hours ago
i would take a break from drinking
but my friend gave me a jelly jar of *****
and i keep telling her i’ll stop, as i pour another.
“i’m going to not drink for two weeks,”
i say as my speech begins to slur.
how many will be my ‘last drink?’
will i make it two weeks?
will i care? does it ******* matter?
there will always be new blood on my jeans.
I call suicide hotlines in my dreams
and hope I'll still have the numbers
memorized when I wake.
I never say how bad I am
in those dreams because
911 is just three clicks away.
I don't tell them about the blood
dripping down my tattooed arms -
scars tell stories but not ones I want to tell.
I tell the operator that I'm "upset"
as I play pyramid solitaire
with a new notch in my suicide bed post.
When I awake I don't have
the courage to dial the numbers
and my cries echo in my foggy room.
i’ve written this so many
different times, usually scrawled
in half fading ink, blood droplets
scattered. this time, for the first time,
i am writing it addressed to You.
you left months ago, left without
a closing goodbye. you left three days
after i last tried; i didn’t even bother
writing anything then. i barely had
the energy to even hold the metal
much less explain my disdain
for the life i have always lived.
my room still reeks of cigarettes
and i wonder if you’ve quit.
i only chainsmoke when i’m
falling back in love with all
the danger, discounting how
unfairly i was treated.
i want to know how many times
you’ve lied to me, because
i watched you wiggle your
way out of glue traps that
were sure to ensnare you.
i am writing this because
i think people deserve closure,
not to leave without a word
or explanation. my reason is
simple: i have no interest
in life. i have no connection
to the world anymore.
i have no connection to
my emotions anymore.
don’t blame yourself
but don’t flatter yourself either.
suicide tw, written for a contest with the prompt of writing a suicidal note to a lover.