"Eee Eee" says the pink plastic rhino
melting onto the pavement
and so goes your childhood but
you must wonder who bought
that pink plastic rhino that shrieks
"Eee Eee" so loudly that nobody
hears it and why?

Boom.
There goes the neighborhood.
The trees, the house, the swings
and the pink plastic rhino
that so lively once "Eee Eee"d.

I'm sobbing into an empty cereal bowl of broken dreams

i don't know what it is about this airport,
maybe it's the fact that i've a plane waiting
to deport me back home for who knows how long
and this is something i don't want; home is a prison.
this airport is making me think,
what awaits after four hours is a return to bad things,
and maybe i should **** myself.
i've thought that an option for years,
it's there and most likely it'll happen in the future
but maybe i should speed up the process.

this isn't a poem.
this is me thinking out loud
into the ear of a paper.
this is me gathering
my thoughts
attempting
to make sense of this
overwhelming sadness
and desire to give up.

the three or five people that seem to care about me
live hundreds of miles away so for them, no matter
how much i want to do it, i can't **** myself because
they wouldn't hear of my death,
they wouldn't come to my funeral,
and it'd be like i'd disappeared without saying goodbye
which is the biggest crime and betrayal i could pull.
if i told them before hand they'd say anything to stop me
and i don't have the heart to listen to that.

i'm tired and i'm crumbling.
i'm not sure this is a life i want to pursue.
what's the point of it?
fighting with yourself
morning after morning for control.
that's no way to live.
and living for other people's sake
isn't quality either.

this isn't a poem and this isn't a suicide note
or anything of the kind. this is me letting it out
inside a ***** airport restroom stall crying once again
for the first time in what'll be many nights to come.

the paper is getting soggy and a thousand people
heading in every direction of every corner of the globe
stroll unaware outside. i suppose it's time to put the pen down
and leave.

good bye for now.
maybe next time we can write a poem together.

she was there the first time I tried hanging myself
from the ceiling fan in the comfort of my own room,
looking down at the red faced mess that wept on
the floor, daddy's leather belt tied around his neck,
a choking silence, a quiet wheezing, frustrating tears,
anger at another failure, head pounding, head screaming:
"You're not good enough! You're not good enough...!"
over and over again like a scratched record, needle on,
a ghostly hand, tattooed poems from pale shoulder to pale fingers,
reaching out at a limp hand, a gentle squeeze by winter's touch,
a crooked toothed understanding smile, paper eyes into tv static eyes,
rivers cascading down a rocky pimpled face, this was a surrender,
she knew, she'd so long ago surrendered herself, raised a white flag
on her own fortress of solitude, the life cooked out in a gas oven,
I was always a sinner though in no gods I've believed, and hell
I don't fear because hell is manmade, hell is here, hell is smirks,
hell is being mocked, hell is disappointing grades, hell is ripping the hairs
from my head in an attempt to replace pain, hell is grand, I felt it, she felt it,
and there is nothing after death and nothing is better than this nothingness,
seconds away from experiencing the soothing blandness of infinite zero
the belt collapsed on my weight and here I was and here she was, peering,
and though becoming a corpse didn't worry me, the following days did,
she comprehended, but for whatever reason she comforted me,
until dissipating back into her own tiny place on the bookshelf,
to live her lifelessness between the leafs of a book, leaving the broken me
to see another night, another sunrise, hiding the belt in father's dresser.

the moment I met you I ripped a hole through my chest 
looking for a beating heart to hand but the cavity was empty.

the wound didn’t seal and turned ghoulish with time,
rotting, spreading, like an obsidian cancer.

[theres something wrong with her]* , i told him,
[she's beautiful.] *
/cause or symptom?/ he asked, and i shrugged.she was wearing green nail polish
and cheap sandals, drinking bottled water,
i was on the corner like a vagrant,
sundress and sunglasses,
reading far too much into
every movement.
she looked like she tipped taxi drivers far too much,
like she could break every bone
and laugh about it the next day,
and i wanted to **** her.
like that would give me part of her, like an exchange
and not just an act.
{she was looking at her phone and she laughed at god knows what,
a text or a picture or anything but i
wanted to cook for her,
i wanted to sleep with her and still be friends
the next day}
he nudged me and i shrugged,
traced patterns on the sidewalk till she left.
/there's something wrong with you/ he told me. i shrugged.

Sometimes you feel like a flower in a glass vase
decorating the center of a booth in a rundown diner
surrounded by coffee cup stains and burger grease
and accompanied by a hundred wearied faces
that come and pass, blurs in the middle of the night,
the fluorescent light of a single bulb that slowly burns out
the only shining source, mucky water your one food supply,
alone, carefully shriveling away forgotten, but other times
you're the diner, the trusty booth, a shimmering light
on a otherwise cavernous, empty road
in the middle of nowhere, a guardian,
always there waiting to help the exhausted
on their journey, wherever that may be.