On my wrist
You trace a roadmap
Of your heart.

There are winds
And turns
And potholes

Where past loves
Have been
Here,

The road is
Cordoned off
And forward,

Endless sunsets
Over mountain peaks
And the sun

Rising over sea
And shore.
Your story

Comes in whispers
And sighs
The occasional

Gasping intensity
Of eyes
Meeting eyes.

Your hand
Strays from my wrist
To wisps of hair

That have broken
Free
To dance in the breeze

Of your breath
That hangs
Ever close to my neck.

loneliness crept on every breath

To be lonely in this world**  is to have someone you love,  but can't be with them. Its when your family denys you making you feel like you're nothing.
   To be lonely in this world is when your father is alive, but is never there when you need him. Its when the person you love with all your heart is contimplating walking away.
There are some people who wish to be alone and completely on their own. Those who wish to embrace lonelyness I would gladly give them what they want. I would let them take it, because I have been alone for much too long. If they want it they can take it and never give it back.

If you come as softly
As the wind within the trees
You may hear what I hear
See what sorrow sees.

If you come as lightly
As threading dew
I will take you gladly
Nor ask more of you.

You may sit beside me
Silent as a breath
Only those who stay dead
Shall remember death.

And if you come I will be silent
Nor speak harsh words to you.
I will not ask you why now.
Or how, or what you do.

We shall sit here, softly
Beneath two different years
And the rich between us
Shall drink our tears.

Without kneeling, without the sign of the cross
without self-examination
her worn keyboard becomes a confessional.
Lithe fingers tap, tap, tap out
secrets in lines of tasted desires
and opened dark doors.
With a series of deletions and replacements, key by key,
bolstered by the fervor of the moment
tales of her recent transgressions emerge.
Like a cat leaping toward it's victim
her index finger punches the enter key
as details of her indiscretions, come to rest on-line
as obvious as hunters' prey in an open field.  

Cyberspace, like a priest without a collar,
accepts her admissions without the comfort of absolution
still her guilt is released.

With the conviction of a grieving fourteen year old, I cut a thick **** deep into my vein & watched the blue beneath my skin melt into a red stream that trickled through my fingers. I didn't cut in rows, for safety. I cut in columns. I watched the gray walls that encased me fall into a dusty mass beneath my feet. I watched all of the chaos that spiraled around me grow smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a dime sized glisten before me. I heard everything fall eerily silent like the serenity of a funeral we all knew was coming; the end to a suffering. The kind of ending that makes our bones ache but lifts our hearts in a sea of  some twisted hope that we feel guilty for feeling but are still comforted by. A silence unpentrible by the anxious sirens of an ambulance headed toward my house or the hurried footsteps of my sister's cheap moccasin's headed toward my bedroom door.

That was the first time, I felt terrifed of my own hands; this sense of genuine suspense for what I'd do next as if I wasn't the one in charge of where my limbs went. The first time I ever felt that evil love for hating myself; that desire to press down harder; to clip the vein where it starts; to let myself pour out like a barrel of salt water; to become dry skin over still bones... That was the first time, I made an honest attempt to fight myself off of my own frame. The first time I ever wished I'd slept through every hour of my life up until this point just so that I'd have nothing to think about.

Well, four years later, I'm just so glad I made it out because the happiness that has grown over my skull is enough to make me cry and I don't even know that little girl who so desperately wanted to die.

Exquisite torments,
Her body, voice, my leaving—
Freedom above all.