in a workshop i wrote
about a boy who kissed me
after i told him not to.
in the piece i called
myself Clementine.
admitting that i was
kissed without permission
seemed so much easier
than not misgendering myself
in front of fifty people.

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.

he tasted like
res and sweet coffee.
i cherished the sticky tar
and noticeable sugar.

later i came back into the room
and he was just wearing jeans,
smoking a menthol.
he watched me get dressed
and commented on the clothes
he hadn’t paid attention to
when he helped me take them off.

i sat beside him and felt
that familiar itch in my wrist
and came to the nagging thought that
everything is just a distraction
from a life not worth living.

i gave him a piece of glass
i could have killed myself with.
he was happy to take it away,
didn’t get mad that the thought
of slitting my wrists in a fatal fashion
crossed my mind a time or two together.

i watched him drive off
and missed him as soon as
he left our embrace on the porch.
i’m more sure than i’ve ever been
that he won’t leave me.
that means that i
cannot down bleach
when i feel hopeless.

kisses amid incense smoke
and a haze left over
from the pack we finished
in twenty two hours.
i choke on love
and spit up the burning push
to be more than just
an unpublished poet
among billions of
self proclaimed,
unpublished poets.
i’d write him a collection
of anything he would like to read
even if it’s just my blood
smeared from page to page.
oh god i am a poet,
and oh god i am scared.
i swear one day i’ll be
good for him, after my wrists
stop singing songs
i’m sure he’ll be thrilled
to never have to hear again.

I’m old enough to buy a semi automatic
but not old enough to buy a forty.
That’s okay, my dad drinks enough
that he doesn’t notice when a beer
or glass of wine is missing.
I drink to fall asleep, drink to wake up,
drink to write. They say alcohol doesn’t
make you any more creative, but I don’t
buy into that when I’m four beers in and am not
just another suicidal kid on the internet.
He doesn’t care that I hurt myself,
just that I cry around him. I’m not
allowed to be angry, but he sure as hell is.
He knocks over my mom’s organization
and yells at me as I tremble, scared as hell,
ready to bleed to be forgiven. My therapist
says he’s an alcoholic. She’s probably right,
but admitting that would be admitting
a predisposition that should keep
me away from bars and liquor cabinets.
To be sober is to be vulnerable
and I’m sick of being scared.

i forcefully chew the xanax into pieces,
letting the bitter taste coat my mouth
as it reminds me of what will soon be in my system.
i let it calm me down as i contemplate more,
deciding on acid instead. god i’m ******* up my body.
five trips in two and a half months and i feel
like this is never going to end.
i’m going to keep buying xanax and i’m going to keep taking it
and it might even ruin my life but i don’t give a ****.
take my fifty and hand me a dozen bars and i’ll tell you
i’m in love. the other night i took some and drank
and my mom was worried but she figured it was
just my medication. i owe you neurotin,
i contemplate my new bruises just as colors
start to dance. i want my love back but
in the meantime, this artificial intrigue
will just have to do. hopefully i live
long enough to see my darling again.

rite aid was out of maverick red 100s;
they only had shorts.
i had to buy a pack of newports
and the thought of shedding you
made me tremble as i slid my card.
yes, i switched from your menthols
back to my reds and yes, i kept your brand.

the other day i walked into my room
and the scent of cigarettes took me back,
back to the times of us sharing cigarette
after cigarette and i began to cry.
i called my therapist but she didn’t pick up.

the thought of quitting smoking crosses my mind
on at least a weekly basis, but i refuse to let you
ruin an agent of death i held in my hand
even before you came along.
i will not stop and i will continue to shed
the strongest tears for you.

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.

waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.

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.

my furniture is sentient
and i am not as real
as i might like to be.
mild hallucinations,
like dramamine
without the paranoia.
is this a dissociative?
i did a little research
and i was going to have a sitter
but it came early and i
wanted to try it and - yes
i am just one bad decision
away from prison, one bad
decision away from lying
unconscious in a ditch.  
salvia is legal  and
causing me to calculate
the realities of the life
i am choosing to steer
with reckless ambition.

i carve memories from my arm
as though i am uprooting
plants who got the rot.
blood trickles through the word,
the calligraphy ink we  ‘borrowed’
while still in our sober days.
i wish it didn’t have to end with
glass and tears and flickering vital signs.
but he pulled life from me even when
i wasn’t holding a blade to my wrist.
he made me feel as if i was always
secondary in every way possible.
oh god how i scratch open healing wounds
and pretend that his friendship didn’t once
keep me from jumping out of my window.

my clothes smell like
****, cigarettes,
cheap perfume.
my breath smells like
smoke, beer,
boredom.

i want to spray paint
a list of everything I hate
on the side of a Walmart.
i want to tattoo
a list of everything i love
on the palm of my hand.

i want to stop rolling joints
on my Springsteen 45
but I also want
someone to ask me about it.

i want to keep sitting
on the ***** behind the bridge
smoking out of plastic bottles,
inhaling the desire
to stay young like this forever.

i want my hands to tell stories.
scars, tattoos, glitter, pen ink.
i want someone to turn
those into a poem,
a far better one than i could ever write.

i want to be lethal
but i’m coughing up my lungs
and the chemicals in my blood
will keep me alive just long enough
to let me watch myself fall apart.

i’m not welcome here
anymore. the ground is
calling calling calling
my name in your voice.
i grab yellow roses-
did you know Van Gogh
ate yellow paint once?
people said it was because
he thought  it would make
him happy, but he was
trying to **** himself.
i pin the flowers to my dress
because i want something
beautiful to die with me.
god knows i’m not.
i’m coming down to get
you, darling. i hope the concrete
hurts. you’re worth it.

god traced her fingers down my spine
and said, “my child, you don’t believe
in much of anything these days,
why are you putting your faith
in empty bottles and 2 miligram bars?”

i scratched my nails down my arm
and said, “god, you are just another
voice i hear. how do i know
you’re not the one that tries to **** me?
how do i know that you’re not the one
who whispers about how terrible i am?”

god ran her hands through my hair
and said, “sweetie, i’m god. you have
to trust me, you have to believe
that i love you and can save you.”

i balled my hands into fists
and said, “god, i have stopped
putting my faith in forces
i hear in my ears. i can’t believe
in something that will only
let me wallow in my sickness
because it’s a trial.
my life has been a trial
and i’m going to make it end
if i hear one more *******
voice.”

god vanished and laughed herself to sleep.

4:30 AM.
I needed the lucky cigarette
but didn’t smoke it.
You were downstairs sleeping
though I had had too much coffee
to be able to join you.
All of that coffee was mixed
with whiskey creamer; I threw up
the next morning.
You were calm about everything,
keeping me from going over the edge.

4:30 AM.
I was staring at the snow
thinking about your touch
while the smoke fogged my room.
I needed your arm around me
as I contemplated a life different
to the one I’d been living.
The one I’m still living,
but having you around
makes it a hell of a lot easier.

no love, no oxygen,
no memories.
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 fell in love with
a life so outside
of my own head;
I never know what
I want these days.
My thoughts scare me
so I tune them out
and try to live hedonistically.
When I am alone at night
I am left with them
and my arm often
ends up in tatters.
I don’t listen to myself.
I don’t know myself
and I don’t think I want to.
I exist only in relation to others
and my ignored thoughts
will torture me in death.

i toy with the idea of
buying a bus ticket to
somewhere on the west coast
to a place i would be new to
to a place where i could be
as invisible as i like
i don’t know what
is stopping me from
being a burlesque dancer in
Portland but I keep spending
my money on cigarettes and
**** and all i do is
smoke and cry and love
and i need to get out
of this house that has become
such a miserable place to be
such a miserable place to live
but when it comes down to
it i’m more likely to
**** myself than flee

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 am disconnected from
my body, my life,
the shattered pieces
bearing my once loved
consciousness.
i exist on autopilot
after the sun goes down.
my bones ache with
lack of purpose,
desire, compassion
towards myself.
i’m lying when i say
i hate everyone i’ve been
and everything i shall be.
in truth, i am just a hollow
unfeeling mass that one day
illusioned flowers will spring from.

lucky cigarettes don’t work anymore
and now i’m back to being drunk daily
just like how i was when he met me.
alone i revert back to bad habits
that will soon be more than just side projects.
beer won’t do its job anymore and i’ll be
back to whiskey but i swore i wouldn’t do xanax anymore.

i carved a heart into my arm
because i could hear him singing along.
i look at it and smile as it made me feel.
he made me feel less alone and desperate
and now i’m a loose cannon and a drug machine.
i can’t remember the last time i was sober.

i’m never going to stop missing him.
i might get better but it won’t be soon.
i’ll be dead by twenty five if i don’t
end up in residential.
i was in love and now he’s gone
and i’m completely drunk.

you said ‘i love you’
and kissed me hard
and i melted into the touch
that had grown to be so
comfortable, reassuring.
you said ‘i love you’
and i never thought
you would disappear
into thin air, without a goodbye.
you said ‘i love you’
and it haunts me.

you said ‘i love you’
and i thought that meant more
than ‘i’ll last a few months
and then you’ll never see
my bright green car again.’
you said ‘i love you’ and
i nodded out in your arms
after too much vicodin.

you said ‘i love you’
but didn’t tell me
how long that would last.

i’ll keep his brand,
just because it’s cheaper,
but i’m going back to reds.
i used to hate menthols
and i grew to like them
as i grew to like him;
the mint coated my mouth
and made it feel as though
the smoke was his breath
at the times he wasn’t with me.
i don’t want to remember him
every time i light a cigarette.

i need to find new music
because all I’ve been listening to
has been reminding me of him.
i’ve been crying when
i can hear him singing along.
i even carved hearts into my skin
when crying stopped being cathartic.

i’m tired of everything i do
being connected to him,
so i’m going back to reds.

i’ve heard people explain
if **** and cigarettes are smelled
it’s coming from me, a perfume
i only have to light.
they’re used to my repetitive nature,
my decaying body stuffed inside
a six year old leather jacket.
it's a running gag that I
destroy myself on an
hourly basis. it's funny that I
spent most of high school
clawing at my wrists to get
the fatal flaws out.
I put myself on display
and then get uncomfortable when
I'm asked for a blow by blow
of my most recent suicidal episode.
the gashes on my arms seem to be
an invitation for people to ask me
personal questions whose answers
are only given as whispers under the blanket of night.
i am open and yet how closed am i,
the wanting to be heard conflicting
with wanting to create an air of mystery.
so when you smell smoke just know
i am around, i am waiting
for my name to slip out
when friends bring up
“crazy exes.”

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.

it feels like it’s been lifetimes
since the last time i lit the candle
i only let burn when you’re around.
the flowers we picked together
have died and the blood you smeared
on the glass in my room is now commonplace.
i weep sad songs at night right before bed
because you should be lying beside me
on the floor of my parents’ house
and giggling until two in the morning.
come back so the wax can melt into my skin
and give me marks to cherish you by forever.

sitting alone in a room
silent aside from the
pounding of the rain,
whirring of the fan,
street noises travelling
through my open window.
i am alive and do not
feel as though i
need to tear my hair out
due to silence.
i feel the universe
congealing in my bones
and god i feel alive
and **** i feel like god.
turning off the lights
doesn’t make anxieties
race through my skull.
darkness is peace at last.

you saw me fall for death
and turned your back
with a laugh. ‘let lovers
rest’ was your philosophy.
i bled rivers of red but
that came to be not
even close to enough.
it wasn’t enough for you
either. when you came back
you saw my arms and laughed
and told me i was just in love.
“that’s how you know it’s true.”
i wanted to **** you, but not more
than i wanted to **** myself.
you took to happiness and i
begged for death with rope
around my fragile neck.

i smoke hundreds
and let the ash build up
and pretend i’m a french movie star.
i like the way the smoke feels;
rough, grating, and heavy.
sam says it’s because i like to hurt myself.
sam’s right about most things.
she says i’m more like my dad then i realize
which is a scary thought
but i’ve noticed more similarities
and i just hope i’m not as angry
unless it’s useful
but i know i am.
i snap and spark and set fire
to everything that slightly annoys me
if i’m in a mood.
i’m always in some kind of mood
because if it’s not one thing
it’s another. if it’s not
drugs then it’s food
and if it’s not food then it’s cutting
and if it’s not cutting - well
i think that should suffice.
but i know my dad
and he smokes a lot
but i think i smoke more.
i’m never sober.
he only partakes at night.
i know my dad
but i don’t know myself
so sam may be right
but i’m deaf unless you’re complimenting me.

i can’t remember the sound
of his voice when he
told me to stop crying.
i know it was angry
but i can no longer hear
the inflection that made my heart
drop, my pulse speed up
because in that moment
he was my father.
in that moment i was scared
and shrunk away from him,
but his arm acted as an apology
around my shaking shoulders.
my dad never apologizes
after he makes me cry.
He stayed up with me that night
and i cried in his arms until six am.
the pack of cigarettes we had been sharing
was gone by sunrise.
i no longer remember how
that display of love made me feel wanted
because now i am left with a benzo haze
over the fulfilling moments, and a
clear recollection of the times i was hurt.
but i cut our cord and buried it in the sand
and i no longer feel the burden of love.
i no longer feel the burden of loving
and am back to shake alone at the thought
of my dad raising his voice.

a shot glass slammed onto
marble countertops,
shuddering and yet not
breaking.
breaking like your voice
when you tell him how badly
you wanted to die last night,
how you almost did it
with a beer can you
mangled until you could
slice through skin with
aluminium's sharp edge
but it didn’t work.
another drink is poured
and another shot is slammed
and your confession is hanging
by a noose wrapped around
the kitchen ceiling light.
red scratches, cuts, attempts -
whatever you want to call them -
protrude angrily and yet
he says nothing.
you feel like nothing,
like an empty cloud floating
through a sky you just
don’t feel attached to.
a sky you could drop from
happily at any time.
maybe the aluminum
will work next try.

sleek nothingness,
a comforting nihilistic
home. everything is
possible, but nothing is
likely. flowers grow but
can’t be seen. the moon is
eclipsed. despair sounds like
it is the only option, but you
hear a calling from the void.
songbirds growl and you smile.
rain can only be felt, but is
welcomed. let your damp skin
peel off and let yourself drop
down, down to a fate you
trust will be preferable
to the life you are living
now.

i swore i’d stop writing about you
three poems ago. i swore i’d stop
hurting myself but i’m bleeding again.
i swore i’d move on and not look back
but i almost called you last night.
i never swore i’d delete your number.

where did you go?
what drove you away from
late nights smoking in my room?
you’d always play my guitar.
but only knew the beginnings
to most songs; i still
tried to sing along.

i’ve been drinking again and
it’s not your fault. *** washes
away the scars you left and
keeps me from thinking
about all the flaws you
could have been running from.

i’m hanging up this line for good.