The first

Drops for her,
The silent wish,
That it was different,
That I was not a burden.
It splashes down,
Splitting into a thousand little droplets,
Each a sorrowful entity,
Depicting each scene of heart-wrenching pain.

The second

Drops for him,
The silent prayer,
That I could be better,
A person you wished could be like you,
The man that could make you proud,
By just being a man
Not more, not less.
I'm sorry I'm less.

The third

Drops for me,
More than just silent,
More than just faint,
It crashes like thunder,
Bearing grief and pain,
That I am not what you expect,
Nor will I ever be,
And nothing can change that, even me.

These tears come hurtling down,
And maybe the figures are just figures,
It could be more, definitely more, I lost count,
But the awful truth is its always silent,
Never to be heard or seen...

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

It's starting again.

I can feel the emptiness nestling in my joints.

With each drop in temperature, the
evils begin spiraling inside
of my mind as I fall
to the hounds.

I don't care. I don't blink.
It has no effect on me
anymore.

In my mind, I am smoking away
the tears and choking fears. Wispy tendrils of
heather gray caress my thin, chapped
lips with love. I am wearing
leather and black and there are
silver knuckles
gracing my lily white skin, marred
only by my ******, bitten nails and
your ink. I am
embracing
the demons, letting them drive
me away on chrome plated chariots, just
to get away, to run faster than God
itself, to the end -
the finish line -
they can't catch me;
they won't catch me yet,
not today.

In reality, I am buried
by layers of fat and years of secrets. I am
nothing but easily forgotten, and I
breathe in the esse of other lives, as if
they can save me or take hold, can grab
me tight, can pull my head high above suffocating
midnight waves. I am an
actor only by the smiles that convince me of a performance
well done. I am a liar, a
**** good one.

I'm not even excited for Christmas.
The tree, the lights, the frosty
air does nothing to arouse a festive
spirit or a hopeful mood. This is my only tell.
I have never lost
this one hope, this sole
light. Never have I lost
all - just you, though that has
always felt like a loss
larger than life.

"**** it all," I whisper.
Because no one cares, and we
are a selfish race. We are self-
absorbed, drowning in our own sorrows, and
clinging to desperate attempts of connecting.

It's starting again, and this time, I can
taste it on my tongue. Bitter, copper, heavy and
foul. Perhaps, if I believed in salvation, I
could afford
hope. For now, though, hope is an
empty bottle of water in the Sahara, and it is
foreign and massive and dark and looming.

Eating me alive.

Some blades sting
as they slice through skin;
laced with backhanded
compliments, a withering glance,
and the steady hand of
an executioner, they aim
to demolish, stick by stick
of explosive hatred.

Some blades have poisoned tips,
dipped in a brew so wicked
that it lurks from vein to vein
and blacks you out, strikes you
from existence by hijacking your senses
and drowning them with intense,
heady emotions like loneliness, and fear,
and fiery anger.

Some blades are disguised as a handshake,
one that grips and cracks your bones into splinters,
shards of what once was dignity
and pride. A grip that convinces you
to admit that you are nothing, that you are
less than, that you are inferior.

And then there is the blade,
tipped like a pen,
upon which I ****** myself. This
blade, unlike the others,
is choice and stupidity and release.
It is a forfeit, a crushing defeat
that the writers succumb to. It is this
blade, ink pouring from our pumping aortas
to our gnarled, stained fingertips
that dance across a page, that charm
our own minds with the drowsy lullabies
and delusions of omnipotence so that
we can spill the deepest, blackest pits
of our shriveled peach hearts
and spit them out into the universe.
A million voices collide and create the void
where we all end, where we all begin, and
forge the path of self-destruction it takes
to fish out a handful of temperate words,
biblical verses, even historic epics
to release ourselves of our woes
and of every singular thought.

Some blades are caused by the average,
the ones who would not ****** a dagger
through their chest, not even
for the truth.
But our blade, the wicked fiend,
sweeps through every bone and ligament
until she reaps what is due;
the words you're reading,
my thoughts scattered out
for you.

It's just a bite, what harm could it do?
It triggers a domino effect, because one bite invariably turns into two, and three, and four and all of a sudden you're eating.
But you can't do that, because being skinny will make everything better.
You look in the mirror, hoping to see ribs and spine and hip-bones. You stretch your skin farther over your bones, and watch the fat melt away. You are skinny, and you are indestructible.
Nothing fits.
You shop for new clothes
but they sag in all the wrong places.
Nothing pulls over your chest the way it used to, instead it hangs there limply.
There are inches of extra fabric behind your thighs.
Your hips used to be graceful and womanly, but now you look like a pre-pubescent child.
Being skinny just isn't fun anymore.
But you can't go back, because you remember times when you'd stand in front of dressing room mirrors and clothes would s t r e t c h over your stomach and hips and thighs and *******. Everything would be too tight in all the wrong places.
It is either skinny or fat, never an in-between. You can never be "healthy" because that's fat too.
And the food is still on your plate while all of this runs through your mind and it almost kills you, because it's JUST A BITE.
but it isn't 'just' anything. it's a big deal.
So you leave the bite behind and your stomach begs you for something, anything. And then you see the candy.
The chips.
The diet sodas.
The protein bars.
The brownies.
The ice cream.
The milkshakes.
And suddenly you are out of control, eating it all at once and you can't stop. It goes in but it HAS TO COME OUT.
So you lock yourself in the stall.
You tickle the back of your throat with your pointer finger and it comes back.
Purple,
Orange,
Blue.
Unnatural colors that come from processed foods.
Red,
yellow,
green.
And you are empty again,
crying on the bathroom floor
with no one to save you.

Your eyes
So deep, mysterious, left me mesmerized
I could get lost within their dark depths
I try to breathe, but they leave me without breath
I was so young, still had yet to know of the expedition
That my heart, so youthful, would soon partake in

I wish I'd never looked at you
Or, into you
For whatever reason, your whole being captivated me
Such grace, such splendor, such beauty
So oblivious to reality whenever my eyes wandered idlelessly to your own
So robotic, the feelings always left me blown

I was so scared of the love I felt
Scared to show it
Afraid to be close to you, no matter how much my heart yearned for the comfort of your aura
Afraid that with one innocent touch of our elbows from the rocking of our school desks
Love would be unleashed, it's selfish wrath suffocating, latched on like a pest

To do this day, I'm still afraid
I hope, to God, that she'll never change
All though, I know, my love will never change
And to this day
She leaves me in awe, with her perfection, yet my thoughts leave me in dismay
I'll never admit to her, that she's the reason I cry everyday
She's the reason I breathe, yet she's the one who seems to ****** it out of my lungs
She's the reason I want to live, and she's the reason I want to die
I hate her.
But I love everything about her.