I was 15 years old when I realized what the meaning of innocence was
My cousin taught me a very valuable lesson on losing it
He taught me what it feels like to be abused.
He taught me what it feels to be helpless.
He taught me the meaning of, "Don't ******* tell."

That night purity spewed out of me like *****.
I flushed it down the toilet
I flushed my childhood down the toilet.

That night I got a glimpse of hell.
I got a glimpse of the devil.

The devil: curly hair, six foot four, two hundred and fifty pounds.
Eyes to leave you dripping crimson from your thighs
And turn your smile into a broken sink
Hands that will show you what flowers feel like when they die.

You will decay underneath him.

I wouldn't call this poetry
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing beautiful about wanting to die. There is nothing lovely about hurting yourself, nothing symbolic about deaths kiss that I wish would kiss my entire soul.
I wouldn't call this poetry because it isn't.
I think really living is a lot like knowing there's demons lurking inside your head but checking anyways.
I think it's like getting home late and pulling back the shower curtain checking murders
even though all you have to so is pull back your own eyelids and see the very thing that's killing you
I did not sleep last night because I was contemplating ways to die while also telling myself not to do it
I think I'm in a paradox.
I wouldn't call this poetry because there is nothing moving about this.I long for safety like a deaf person longs to hear.
But how can you long for something you've never felt?
I've been applying bandaids to my heart except it's words and the adhesive they provided just doesn't stick in my mind anymore
Everyone wants to knock down my walls but I'm missing the safety the cemented in bricks provide and I promise you
Oh god I promise you
You don't want to come through my walls

she wears 12 human teeth around her neck and when i ask why she tells me it's art
but i cant help but wonder where she got those teeth and if she made the necklace or did she buy it?
are they real teeth or just molds of something that used to be?
and is she a sick psychopath or just an unusual artist?  
as the weeks go by i touch the teeth they're real, they're human, shes sick
there's 14 teeth on the string now and she holds them in her palms
tears down her face she plucks, like petals, the teeth, shes sick

grabs her hair, cuts chunk by chunk off her head
i grab the knife still she cries she wont let go shes sick
we walk in the house, bodies,
bodies!
dismembered people strewn about her kitchen
how can the neighbors stand the smell?
i count, one two three fourteen shes sick, dear god, she's sick!
she cries she screams look what I've done!
its art! she cries it's art!  

the sirens come close who called?
thirty i mean sixty men push through the door surround
put our hands on our heads why me ?!

i scream she screams our hands go up
i close my eyes make it stop please god just make it stop
open shes gone i turn around the cops aim straight
flashes flashes flashing back to the night
its me, it's me, dear god, i'm sick!