right now
in a distant place and time and feeling
someone is writing a poem

this poem could be a storm
raging on and breaking the hulls of ships
swallowing people and blowing the crossbones flags

or

it could be a pink poem
streaked with bright yellows and dazzling greens
making people laugh and giggle with delight

i could stretch out my fingertips
and hear the bones crackle-
i could connect to a poet and... magic

I repeat it
like an incantation

"I hate myself I hate myself I hatemyselfIhatemyselfIhatemyself-"

until the words blur
and so does my vision
the world is a smeared pencil mark
covered in a veil of darkness
that matches my mood
and my terrible thoughts.

My whole world is crumbling
like a cookie
dipped in milk
pieces left drowning
because who cares
about just one cookie?

My whole world is burning
like white, crisp paper
that was lit
on fire
by a neon green lighter
the smell of smoke fills the air
ashes litter the floor
because who cares
about just one piece of paper?

My whole world is collapsing
like a happy yellow house
after a sad grey storm
chipped paint
fallen beams
wooden splinters
broken dreams
because who cares
about just one house?

My whole world is nothing
a beige wall
a blank canvas
a dropped call
a dead battery
a fizzled out light bulb
a misheard whispered word
because who cares
about just one girl?

I wrote so many poems
for him
that impossibly
I was running out of metaphors.

and it's moments like these
when I'm all alone
at 2:42 p.m.
with the fire stuck in the sky
illuminating my cluttered desk
when I realize
that no one
(truly)
knows who I am.
no one has ever
shaved away the many layers of skin
covering my
(real)
heart
because maybe no one
(truly)
cares.

I want to dig my nails in to my skin,
and drag,
peeling and bleeding the tears I must not shed.
I will leave little crescent moons
that will glow
as pale
as a child's milk.

I want to pound my thighs,
and bruise,
breaking and destroying all frustrations.
Great booms will shake this earth
and stories will be told
about these booms
for generations.

I want to rip the hair from my scalp,
and shred,
tearing and pulling all smoke clouds away from my mind.
The ***** smoke puffs will dissipate
and I will be able to
finally
think clearly.

I put a gun up to my head, if only to be with you.

your throat closes up, making you
c h o k e
on your own words, your own shouts for help
nothing but tight lips and squinted eyes
portray any amount of emotions on your face
you want to screech, to tell someone to
h e l p   m e   I   n e e d   y o u
but no words
no squeaks
no whispers
escape past your hard teeth
finally
all alone
you begin to sOB

he pointed to my ribs
more importantly the space between them
and put his lips up to my ear
"you are n o t h i n g."

question mar
ks???
written in pen with the brightest,
reddest
ink
dominate my thoughts
seeping in to
the curve of every comma,
filling the soft space
of every 'O'
clinging around the hard edges of every period
...e v e r y
                 w h e r e...
"where are my
exclamation poi
nts?"
I scream???

he crams pills down his throat
two of them
every night
just so "he won't feel the pain"
even though he wants to hurt himself

m o r e  t h a n  e v e r.

poetry should be about

flowers

not about

the tears that never stop.

my ankles are chafed
and stained with red
you look me in the eye
and rub dirt in to my wounds.

is like
being born
with a new pair of shoes.

you have new eyes
new feelings
everything is new
just out of the box.

you live
and laugh,
cry tears of surprise.

an escape
from this dreadful reality
something refreshing and
different.

become lost in their thoughts,
breathe in unison,
become one.

but now it ends
and you are ****** back
in to the cold, unforgiving universe
but don't worry
you can always pick up
another novel
and begin
reading
again

my heart tap dances in my chest
almost skipping
out on my tongue
to escape the cavernous cage
that is my ribs.

the metal was cool
and numbed his fingertips
luckily he was still able to
pull the trigger.

their eyes carve letters in to my back, spelling out words that will break me.

1.
Hope was a girl with soft brown tresses
that swung around her shoulders as she laughed.
Hope was a girl with light hazel eyes
that shone like stars when she smiled.
Hope was a girl who always told me she was my bestest friend.

2.
but lately Hope's hair has been heavy with grease
her eyes have been dull with purple bruises underneath
and her voice is barely heard unless she says three little words.

3.
last night I shot Hope in the face
17 times, to be precise
she would not be mad
if her face was intact
i just could not take her
saying those three stupid words.

4.
"I've given up."

he found her with a bottle of pills clutched tightly in white knuckled fingers
her eyes were fallen shut and he was so tempted to leave her resting peacefully, she looked so beautiful
but after a moment
(m o m e n t .)
he realized that the girl who ran though his mind, chasing butterflies each day
h a d   c o m m i t t e d   s u i c i d e .
she always spoke about how she wanted to stroke an angel's wings
to see if they were truly as soft as they merely appeared.
her limp body lay, spread out, her hair spilling over her pillow,
anyone else might have believed she was just a sleeping beauty
but he knew.
a wretched, throat-bleeding scream filled his ears, one so full of agony and heartbreak that he fell to his knees
it took him a second of agony to realize the teeth grinding screech was coming from h i s lips.

he wasn’t in love with me.
he just wanted a broken toy to fix.
— the truth

he crumbled me
in his callused palms
and just
threw
me
away.
— he made it seem so easy

Dried tears
stick permanently to pale faces
too old for her years
her eyes stay wide so she notices
everything.

But she's sleepy
she wants to slither underneath
away from all this weeping
her arms ache from holding up
everything.

She begs for release
jams words in to her ears
but the poisoned snaps don't cease
she is tired of dealing with
everything.

darling
you're too young to hate the world

too young
to be broken down
those rocks slung over your shoulder

look awfully heavy
mind if i
carry
them for you?

I placed a piece of broken glass

on your ******, scabbed tongue

and made you swallow it.

broken pieces
shattered limbs
crushed glass heart
                                                                  frayed with cracks
                                                              and misunderstandings
                                                                  and the empty space
                                                             between my hollow ribs.

they all tell me
that my dreams are
s t u p i d .
I can never be what makes my chest swell in pride
I can never be what makes my breath come easier
I can never be what makes my heart pulse faster under my skin
I can never be who I need to be
because of their
s t u p i d
comments
telling me that my dreams
are incredibly
s t u p i d .

writing a poem
is like
setting yourself
on fire.

and if I told you
that I did not want to live anymore
automatically you would start talking
saying stupid things like
"it'll get better!"
"you have a future!!"
"maybe we should up your medication!!!"

but if I told you
that I did not want to live anymore
you would be all talk, no help
you would not wake me up at dawn
and take me to watch the sun rise
you would not let me throw red paint at a white wall
you would not bake me cookies with extra chocolate chips
you would not read me my favorite book
you would not write me a stupid poem
or crack a stupid knock knock joke
you would not cuddle with me under 3 blankets
or whisper to me at 3 am

only words
that had lost their meaning
once they were repeated
more than three times.