Do not let the faces fool you.
Every bump in the night,
May be the cruel figments of your mind
Hoping to ignite the illusion
of utter insanity.

Do not for one second
Believe in the spine-chilling moans
that seem to leak from every unsightly crevice
of your disfigured thoughts.  

Do not allow yourself
To slip from the serrated edge of sanity,
Even for a fleeting moment.
For the comfort is short-lived,
And the ***** is endless.

Do not stare too long
At the scorched bodies of men,
Contorted into the soot covered demons
That will unfailingly materialize
In your loneliness.

Do not take the threats,
Which echo in the
Impenetrable darkness,
lightly.
They are the fabrication
of your own self destruction.

Do not think
They won’t bury you alive,
Every chance they get.
Leaving the decaying scent
of wilting roses atop the mounds of dirt.
Where they will scrawl your name in haste
across a grimy tombstone.

Do net let
The voices sway you into madness.
For they will play your vulnerability
with the fingers of a skilled harpist.
Leaving you so intoxicated
with the sweet melody
that you will believe you asked for
your own demise.


Do not forget the flimsy nature
of your deteriorating mind,
when appealing whispers
begin to ring in your ears.
They are merely hoping
to glimpse your downfall.


Remember,
not to let them get the best of you.
that if you find anything salvageable
In the chaos inside your head,
or the tsunami inside your heart.
Grasp onto the little beam of hope,
and begin putting yourself
back together.

Ten,
He casts his eyes down quickly,
but not before you catch
the soft liquid-gold
turn to solid ice.

Nine,
Taste the bitter apology on
your quivering lip.
Bite down.
Let it bleed.
Just don't let him see you
fall apart.

Eight,
Pick up a book
and feign indifference,
while he does the same.
Do not cry.
Do not speak.
Do not let him see
how much he is hurting you.

Seven,
glance up at him,
and try to catch his eye.
Wonder for the hundredth time
what you did wrong.

Six,
Hang up
When you begin to dig
your nails into the flesh of your hands.
Find the old orange lighter
you save for birthday candles.
Let the flames lick across your skin in brilliant color.
Anything to stay warm.

Five,
Count the seconds by the chattering of your teeth.
Wrap your frail arms around your trembling torso.

Four,
Stare back at the tear-streaked face in the mirror.
Hypnotized by blood shot eyes
and scorched veins.

Three,
Grip the dull blade,
in your mangled hand.
Paint poetry
in scarlet ink.
Between pieces of broken skin.

Two,
Squirm at the discomfort
of lacerated wrists.
Feel the hatred metastasize,
for every place he looked at you
in disgust.

One,
Remember the time
you told him
you hate the cold.

Five,
Sleeping soundly
Snuggling
The teddybear.
Protector
From monsters,
Sword in paw.
Ten,
Tears rolling
Down her small face,
"Go back to bed,"
"You're too old
For this nonsense"
Daddy stopped checking
For the monsters
Three years before.
Twelve,
Turn on the lights,
Check the bed,
The closet,
Dark corners.
Fear creeping
Through every bone,
Off with the light,
Two steps and
One jump
To make it to the bed.
Sixteen,
Tear soaked pillows,
Blade in hand,
The only fear
Is for what she feels,
She stopped searching
When she realized
The monsters
Were inside her