Restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows.
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
What did I know about drowning or being drowned?
Sorrow is my own yard,
And in short, I was afraid.
My life will shut very beautifully, suddenly
When everything broken is broken, and everything dead is dead, and the hero has looked into the mirror with complete contempt and the heroine has studied her face and it’s defects
Who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks,
Who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessively,
Who jumped off the Brooklyn bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten.

I used to pray to recover you
Who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard, wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts
Who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation.

Your most frail gesture are things which enclose me.

At twenty I tried to die.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
Watching the others go about their days, likes and dislikes, reasons, habits, fears that self-love is the one weedy stalk of every human blossoming.
How do they do it, the ones who make love without love

After you ignored her legs that she held clamped together so tight that magnets would be jealous of the strength she possessed to try and keep you out,
Did you confuse her groans of pain as moans of pleasure?
Did you not see the tears of shame glistening on her face?
Why didn’t you listen to her when she yelled for you to stop because of the pain you were causing her?
Is having *** with someone as she lays anything but still on the floor comfortable?
When she dug her nails into your flesh and bit with teeth into your arms, releasing the pain you forced on her, returning it into the monster who destroyed her,
Did you think that was permission for you to start again, when she had yet to finish fighting you off for the first time?
How did you confuse her silence when she finally laid still because she knew she could not push you out from inside of her as enjoyment?

I shook the devil’s hand and looked him dead in the eye the night I put the barrel of a shotgun in between my lips
While I stood on the edge of a chair with a noose around my neck.
Killing two birds with one stone.
The feathers of the bird deep inside me would be ruffled after the bullet raced through them,
Shearing them apart like a combine moves through a field of corn.
The bird on the outside of my body would finally learn to fly after the bullet struck the inside of my mouth like a flashlight lights up a dark cave harboring a family of bats
And right before I fell limp to the floor, no longer able to hear my own heartbeat inside my ears,
The noose caught my fall, tightening around my neck.
The night I stood on a wooden chair, holding my own death within my hands in complete darkness around eleven because I wanted to be an owl instead of a raven,
The chirping inside of me wouldn’t quiet.
I heard the voices of wings outside the window in the tree I’d thought about soaring from; telling me to stop or cheering me on, I don’t know.
But if I would’ve put the single round inside the chamber of the gun or slipped the slightest bit from the chair,
I’d know how it feels to fly.

“Here, have a drink,” A man slurred.
A tall, red, plastic cup of heavy smelling alcohol hovered in front of me, like a moth around the flickering flame of a candle.
The cup laughed in my face and dared me to grab it; the peer pressure pouring off of the drunk’s lips was like a buzzing fly that wouldn’t leave me alone.
“No thanks,” I told him.
“C’mon, it’s just one drink.”
I sighed, because I’d been down this road before.
Because just one drink can’t hurt anything, right?
It’s just one.
One that allows a drunken ******* who otherwise has no control over women besides offering ‘just one drink.’
But the flashback that started playing inside my head was a movie screen that felt like a drive-in film where everyone was welcome to watch.
Except they couldn’t.
These drunken “friends” on the TV inside my head who I’d been with a few months ago had wandered off with their own boyfriends, leaving me
Stranded and vulnerable, like a car on the side of the highway without any flashing hazard lights warning other drivers that I was parked there.
They abandoned me.
And who knows how long I would have been stranded until a car decided to pull over and approach my vehicle, tow straps to carry me away.
But he didn’t save me from the other passing cars. Instead, he hauled me around a sharp curve of the long stretch of road,
Left me as a wide open target for his own truck to smash into me, leaving me broken and battered, with no witnesses to call the police, an ambulance or a fire truck.
I was left all alone, bleeding and scarred in the dark curve of the highway where this drunken driver escaped without a single bruise or tear on his body, unlike my own.
“It’s just one drink.” The intoxicated stranger pried at me again, feeling his question burn into me like a red light that just wouldn’t turn green.
“No,” I said and turned away from the drunk.
It was the first time I said no to the smell of dark liquor and whatever was hiding beneath and dissolved into the liquid that was harbored in the tall, red cup.
I said no to being victim again to a ******* drug.

“What are those marks on your arm?”
Instincts pulled the fabric of my sleeve over the evidence and
I thought of giving my normal excuse:
My car scratched the hell out of me.
Most people didn’t know that I actually had a dog,
But they never questioned the lie.

I didn’t answer the girl’s question right away
And the silence that filled the space between us
Reminded me of when a stranger enters the elevator;
Neither of us talked or looked at each other.

I thought of telling the curious girl about my teenage years
And how it seemed a dark cloud hovered around me,
Reigning over my head and sliding beneath my feet
Like a magic carpet, taking me to places I didn’t enjoy going.

I thought of telling her that often times I felt
That terrible cloud becoming stronger, overwhelming me
Like turning on a faucet, warm water covering the bottom
Of the bathtub, inch by inch, creeping over the surface like the tide drowns the sand.

I could feel it like that eerie feeling that comes
Before a big thunderstorm, starting near my feet and seeming to
Crawl up my legs like a gust of wind creeps under a sundress
And I tried to hold it down or push the cloud away.
But pushing it was like pushing a cloud of smoke. It swirled
To other parts of my body but still it lingered around.


I thought of telling the girl that while growing up,
When it rained, it poured.
One thing went wrong and five others went wrong,
Like a design of dominoes. One tips over and soon
You’re left with too many pieces scattered over the floor.

I thought about telling her that I often
Laid in bed at night, a staring contest with the ceiling,
As I imagined myself floating around the high walls of a church
Where my funeral shouldn’t have even been held
Because of all the sins I’d dreamt of committing.

Suicide is considered a sin.

I pictured my mother crying, my brother trying to keep his composure;
My friends who’d dressed in black and sat in the church pews,
Keeping hold of the secret they’d refused to do anything about.
I imagined a lot of hugging and tears, but mostly I heard the lies
That they’d say about me:
“She had so much going for her.”
“It’s really too bad.”
“What a beautiful girl she was.”

I saw myself lying inside the casket, one half of it open,
Revealing my arms crossed in front of me,
My fingers laced in between the spaces of each other
As if I was praying, but it was much too late.

After discovering the scars upon my wrists,
I would be clothed in long sleeves to hide what everyone
Had been pretending not to see.

I didn’t tell the girl that I’d already seen my funeral.

She continued looking at me, waiting for the answer
To the question I’d hoped would never be asked.

I thought about telling her how I kept a thin, silver
Razor blade hidden inside my purse so when the dark
Cloud threatened, I could slice my way through the roaring
Smoke harboring rain droplets that wanted to fill up my body of a bathtub
And consume me.

I thought of telling her that there was a time when I depended
On such a small, dangerous object. I thought about telling her that
I often held the metal like a lifejacket to keep me afloat
Amongst the raging flood waters that wanted to drown me.

I thought about telling her that late at night after I was sure the house
Was asleep, I cried huge, heaving, silent sobs.
My pillow caught my tears and my blankets severed as Kleenexes.
It was all I could do to hold back the truth of telling her that
I grabbed my life preserver many times and would drag the blade
Across my flesh, creating a ripple of red ink over my pale, white wrist;
A tear in the shower curtain that protected my body.

I thought about telling her that many nights
I drank too much alcohol and digested too many pills
And cut myself too deep into what seemed like my own burial,
To where I couldn’t see the light at the other end and it felt
Like the casket lid had closed over me.
I didn’t tell her that I tried to climb to the top of the hole
Where I was buried, only for it to feel like someone had
Stepped on my fingers, the pain making me let go and fall again,
Deeper to the bottom.

I thought about telling her that I’d been lost and tried
Finding myself by drawing maps over my wrist with a
Car that had seen too many miles in such a short amount of time.
I thought about telling her that I made too many mistakes that I couldn’t
Take back; ones that I couldn’t hide or cover all the time,
Like tattoos that wouldn’t wash away.

I thought about telling her that I stopped wearing my seatbelt
When I drove anywhere because if I was in an accident,
I would have a better chance at dying.
But she wouldn’t understand.

So instead, I pushed my sleeve back up to the middle of my
Forearm where it’d been when she’d first asked,
Exposing the straight lines of flesh that had healed over but
Left a permanent scar of elevated skin.
I ran my fingertips over them, feeling the wounds
Like a train moving over the ridges of a railroad.

The girl’s eyes studied my scars that I showed her.
I took her arm in my hand and traced my fingers over
Her skin, smooth , without any ripples,
Then told her to do the same.
She did, then repeated the same motion on mine.
Her cold fingers touching what I’d never wanted her to see.

We made eye contact again.
“Do you see how your skin is soft and smooth?”
I asked her. She nodded her head in response.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Don’t ever think about ruining it.”
I whispered,
Wishing my mother had said the same to me.

“Where did you get those marks on your arm?”
Instincts pulled the fabric down over the evidence.
I thought of giving my normal excuse:
My cat scratched the hell out of me.
Most people didn’t know that I didn’t even have a cat.
But they never questioned the lie.

I didn’t answer the girl’s question right away
And the silence that filled the space between us
Reminded me of when a stranger enters the elevator;
Neither of us talked or looked at each other.

I thought of telling the curious girl about my teenage years
And how it seemed a dark cloud seemed to hover about me;
Reigning over my head and sliding beneath my feet
Like a magic carpet, taking me to places I didn’t enjoy going.

I could have told her that often times I felt
That terrible cloud becoming stronger, overwhelming me
Like turning on a faucet, warm water covering the bottom
Of the bathtub, inch by inch, creeping over the surface like the tide drowns the sand.
I could feel it like that eerie feeling that comes
Before a big thunderstorm, starting near my feet and seeming to
Crawl up my legs as I tried to push it down and away.
But pushing it was like pushing a cloud of smoke, it swirled
To other parts of my body but still it lingered around.


I didn’t tell the girl that while growing up,
When it rained, it poured:
One thing went wrong and five others went wrong,
Like a design of dominoes. One tips over, and soon
You’re left with too big of a mess to handle.

I thought about telling the girl that I often
Laid in bed at night, a staring contest with the ceililng
As I imagined myself floating around the high walls of the church
Where my funeral shouldn’t have even been held
Because of all the sins I’d dreamt of committing.
Suicide is considered a sin.

I pictured my mother crying, my brother trying to
Keep his composure; my friends who’d dressed in black and sat
In the church pews, keeping hold of the secret they’d refused to do anything about.
I imagined a lot of hugging and tears, but mostly I heard lies
That they’d tell about me:
“She had so much going for her.”
“It’s really too bad.”
“What a beautiful girl she was.”

I saw myself lying inside the casket, one half of the tube open,
Revealing my arms crossed in front of me,
My fingers laced in between the spaces of each other
As if I were praying much too late.

After discovering the scars upon my wrists,
I would be clothed in long sleeves to hide what everyone
Had been pretending not to see.
I didn’t tell the girl that I’d already seen my funeral.

She continued looking at me, waiting for the answer
To the question I’d hoped would never be asked.

I thought about telling her how I kept a thin, silver
Razor blade hidden inside my purse so when that dark
Cloud of smoke threatened, I could slice my way through.
I didn’t tell her that there was a time when I depended
On such a small, dangerous object. And I didn’t tell her that
I often grasped the metal like a lifejacket to keep me afloat
Amongst the raging waters that wanted to drown me.

I wanted to tell her that late at night after I was sure the house
Was asleep, I cried huge, heaving, silent sobs.
My pillow caught my tears and the blanket served as a Kleenex.
It was all I could do to hold back the truth of telling her that
I grabbed my life preserver many times and would drag the blade
Across my flesh, creating a ripple of red ink over my pale, white wrist;
A tear in the canvas of my body.

I thought about telling her that many nights
I drank too much alcohol and digested too many pills
And cut too deep into a tunnel so far that I couldn’t see the light at the other end
And how I tried to climb to the top of the hole where I felt stuck
Only for it to feel like someone stepped on my fingers,
The pain making me let go and fall again, deeper to the bottom.

I thought about telling her that I’d been lost and I tried
Finding myself by drawing maps over my wrist with a
Car that had seen too many miles in such a short amount of time.
I wanted to tell her that I made too many mistakes that I couldn’t
Take back; ones that I couldn’t hide or cover all the time.
But she wouldn’t understand.

So instead, I pushed my sleeve back up to the middle of my
Forearm where it’d been when she’d first asked,
Exposing the lines of flesh that had healed over but
Left a permanent scar of raised skin.
I ran my fingertips over it, feeling the wounds
Like a train moves over ridges of the railroad.

The girl’s eye’s studied my scars that I showed her.
I took her arm in my hand and traced my fingers over
Her own skin,
Then I took her hand and told her to do the same.
She did, then repeated the motion on mine.
Her cold fingers touching what I’d never wanted her to see.

We made eye contact again.
“Do you see how your skin has no bumps on it like mine?”
I asked her. She nodded her head in response.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Don’t ever think about ruining it.”
I told her.
She nodded her head again, too young to comprehend,
And turned around to run down the hallway.

I didn’t want my daughter to see me as a victim, but a survivor.

“Where did you get those marks on your arm?”
Instincts pulled the fabric down over the evidence.
I thought of giving my normal excuse:
My cat scratched the hell out of me.
Most people didn’t know that I didn’t even have a cat.
But people believed the lie.

I didn’t answer the girl’s question right away
And the silence that filled the space between us
Reminded me of when a stranger enters the elevator;
Neither of us talked or looked at each other.

I thought of telling the curious girl about my teenage years
And how it seemed a dark cloud seemed to hover about me;
Reigning over my head and sliding beneath my feet
Like a magic carpet, taking me to places I didn’t enjoy going.

I could have told her that often times I could feel
That terrible cloud becoming stronger and overwhelming me
Like turning on a faucet and warm water covering the bottom
Of the bathtub, inch by inch. I could feel it like that eerie feeling that comes
Before a big thunderstorm, starting near my feet and seeming to
Crawl up my legs as I tried to push it down and away.
But pushing it was like pushing a cloud of smoke, it swirled
To other parts of my body but it lingered around.

I thought about but didn’t tell the girl that I often
Laid in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling,
Imagining myself floating around the high walls of the church
Where my funeral shouldn’t have been held
Because of all the sins I’d dreamt of committing.
Suicide is considered a sin.

I pictured my mother crying, my brother trying to
Keep his composure; my friends who’d dressed in black and sat
In the church pews, keeping hold of the secret they’d known about.
I imagined a lot of hugging, and tears, but mostly I heard lies
That they’d tell about me:
“She was so young.”
“She had so much going for her.”
“It’s really too bad.”
“What a beautiful girl she was.”

I saw myself lying inside the casket, one half of the tube open,
Revealing my arms crossed in front of me,
My fingers laced in between the spaces of each other
As if I were praying much too late.

After discovering the scars upon my wrists,
I would be clothed in long sleeves to hide what everyone
Had been pretending not to see.
I didn’t tell the girl that I’d already seen my funeral.

She continued looking at me, waiting for the answer
To the question I’d hoped would never be asked.

I thought about telling her how I kept a thin, silver
Razor blade hidden inside my purse so when that dark
Cloud of smoke threatened, I could slice my way through.
I didn’t tell her that there was a time when I depended
On such a small, dangerous object. And I didn’t tell her that
I often grasped the metal like a lifejacket to keep me afloat
Amongst the raging waters that wanted to drown me.

I wanted to tell her that late at night after I was sure the house
Was asleep, I cried huge, heaving, silent sobs.
My pillow caught my tears and the blanket served as a Kleenex.
It was all I could do to hold back the truth of telling her that
I grabbed my life preserver many times and would drag the blade
Across my flesh, creating a ripple of red ink over my pale, white wrist;
A tear in the canvas of my body.

I thought about telling her that many nights
I drank too much alcohol and digested too many pills
And cut too deep.
I thought about telling her that I’d been lost and I tried
Finding myself by drawing maps over my wrist with a
Car that had seen too many miles in such a short amount of time.
I wanted to tell her that I made too many mistakes that I couldn’t
Take back; ones that I couldn’t hide or cover all the time.
But she wouldn’t understand.

So instead, I pushed my sleeve back up to the middle of my
Forearm where it’d been when she’d first asked,
Exposing the lines of flesh that had healed over but
Left a permanent scar of raised skin.
I ran my fingertips over it, feeling the wounds
Like a train moves over ridges of the railroad.

The girl’s eye’s studied my scars that I showed her.
I took her arm in my hand and traced my fingers over
Her own skin,
Then I took her hand and told her to do the same.
She did, then repeated the motion on mine.
Her cold fingers touched what I’d never wanted her to see.

We made eye contact again.
“Do you see how your skin has no bumps on it like mine?”
I asked her. She nodded her head in response.
“That’s how it’s supposed to be. Don’t ever think about ruining it.”
I told her.
She nodded her head again, too young to comprehend,
And turned around to run down the hallway.

I hadn’t ever thought my daughter would notice.

Laws that get me in trouble.
Mostly for public intoxication
After wandering aimlessly down
Lost streets.
Love I never receive; or gift anyone with either.
Liquor that takes the pain away
If only temporary.
Love fades,
Feelings change,
And the hangover the next morning
Reminds me of why I hate myself
After downing my first shot of alcohol
The night before.
So I start drinking again for breakfast
And the next morning will play out the same.
Endless truths hide behind lies
And luck has never been something I’m  good at.
Life is a game and I can’t ever seem to win,
I lost. I lose. I’m losing.
Over and over again
People call me a lowlife and say I’m going nowhere.
Liquor cures the lonesome for the night
And men tell me they love me.
I believe them.

I hate the word “love.”

You asked me to save you
And I couldn’t for what little life was left of me
Figure out why you would ever ask such a broken person to perform a task like that.
How was I supposed to save you when I couldn’t even save myself?
I’m sorry that we both had to die
Even when you offered to save me if I saved you.
But you didn’t know that I was too far gone to ever be rescued.

I hope when we lie down together in one another’s arms
After staying up much too late,
You feel my rib cage underneath my skin,
Beneath your fingertips
As you rest your hands and cradle me in your arms.
When you feel the ridges of my bones,
I hope you’re reminded of the small parakeet
That sat inside a big cage where all day long
You heard her chirp and was reminded of my steady heartbeat.
Only did the chirps quiet when you reached your fingers through
The small openings; wanting to touch its feathers and feel
Them through your flesh.
Are you reminded of the way my heart seemed to stop
Whenever you moved your fingers over my scars?
I wonder if the wounds that have healed over
Remind you of a jailhouse that holds back the monsters
That lie within me.
If the white bars that hold the cage
Remind you of a prison cell where an inmate
Speaks quietly to himself late at night,
I hope you’re reminded of the parakeet and how
It fills the night with chirps, like the prisoner’s voice
Echoes through the cells as if he’s the only one who’s
Imprisoned.
And I hope my scars tell you that the monsters
Have been silenced
For the night.

When the rooster calls before the sun has broken the horizon, does it wish you a good morning and kiss you on your forehead, or does it remind you that you’ve survived another night and have seen a new sunrise?

Does your bed push you out into the cold or hold you in its blanket arms and tell you to stay?

Is your wrist in need of cleansing from the dried blood that stains your skin after making love to a thin razor blade in the wee hours of morning, or do you pat yourself on the back because you said “no” instead of letting it **** you?

When you brush your teeth and stare at the reflection in the mirror, does the smeared mascara that’s ran down your cheeks trigger the waterfall of new tears to wash away what reminded you that you lived?

Does your bed call you to its arms, the blankets rub your back and your pillow catch your tears?

Do you surrender again to the razor blade in the comfort of your bed’s love?

I keep this bottle of pills, filled up to the brim. And I leave them on my nightstand.
I keep the small container without stealing any
Even when my head is throbbing so hard, I can hear my pulse deep inside my ears.
But I keep them; so if I ever want to taste them all in one setting,
The option is there.
I don’t plan to take these pills. I just have them; just in case.
Because you can’t plan death, you can’t sit down one night and say, “I, want, to, die.”
It doesn’t work like that, depression isn’t that simple.
It’s not an impulsive act or feeling; it’s a build down.
And I say build down because it sure as hell doesn’t make you feel good about yourself.
It piles in your head, like ***** laundry that’s been there for days and sits around the floor,
Because you can’t get out of bed.
It adds up, like miles on that old car that seems to cost a fortune every week but you can’t afford a new one.
Because if you could, maybe you’d leave your pillow and see the world,
Travel. Away.
Like a cross country road trip, pushing pins into a board, marking all of the spots in the world you want to stop and see.
But if my arm were a highway, and these straight lines my tourist spots, my blade would be my car.
It’s not a Cadillac or an SUV. It’s been used,
Back when I actually gave a **** about what I looked like.
I don’t cut slashes in my wrist anymore
As if I was a four year old erasing the white ink from her canvas, coloring with a silver crayon.
And I may be lying when I say,
I don’t have a razor blade hidden within the drawer.
Because  I keep that thin, shiny piece of metal that pulls so easily against flesh,
Because,
Maybe someday I don’t want to relapse and start over.
I want to succeed.
But that isn’t something I can plan.

I've recently been contacted about having my collection of poems published. since you all are such great fans and supporters, I invite you to go 'like' my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/courtneyksnodgrass
you'll get additional sneak peeks like excerpts and quotes from the novel that I just finished writing as well!
it would really mean a lot if you guys could go like my page and then invite your friends too. (if you feel I deserve it)
all is appreciated, thank you so much.
~Courtney Snodgrass