I asked her why she cut herself,
and she said,
"Because death has an edge
and life is pointless."
She asked that I not
write a poem
romanticizing suicide,
just a poem about
how hard it can be
to celebrate life.

It's over now
The time has come
When u realize what you had
You will understand where
True pain comes from

Glad you are perfect
But missing a heart
These deeply inflicted wounds
Have ripped me apart

How can you confess your love ?
When I can taste the bitterness in my mouth and soul
Sorrow and fear scathing my heart
An opening is left with a gaping hole.

it is three in the morning again
and i'm clinging to the t-shirt you gave me
i've whispered your name thirty seven times
to the dust on my nightstand
and the ink stains on my bedspread.
i imagine you cling to her warmth
you no longer have to lie next to
my stone cold, anemic body
i shiver at the thought
or maybe it is the fact
that i have not eaten much
this week and that the weather
is quite frigid for the month of march.
i pull your t-shirt closer to me, trying to
create some sort of heat source. i haven't
had the thermostat on since you left
because i do not have the money to pay
for such things.
the musky scent of you no
longer lingers off your t-shirt,
my old roommate threw it in the wash
so i threw her out.
I cling tighter to your t-shirt
causing my knuckles to crack
and the dry, crisp skin on my
hands to split open
the pain doesn't hurt anymore
i am used to this pain