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.

Don't ask me what I see in him because
I do not know the answer to that question,
It's the way he says my name ,
the way he brings out every vowel and consonant.
It is the huskiness in his voice,
the melody in his tone.
It may be the way he smiles,
how his lips curve when he opens his mouth,
how his lips feel when they press against mine.
No, It's his compelling eyes,
they seem to get me to do anything he pleases
like, going down on my knees and...
Yeah, it's his hands,
the feeling I get when they brush against my skin.
it is his arms.
The way he holds me tight
when I'm feeling down or cold.
it is probably his scent
the way I can smell him from a distance
and then get all jumpy inside.
It is how he makes me come,
over on Friday nights and we watch movies
even though he knows how much I hate movies.
It is because he asks me how I'm doing
and actually cares.
It is the way he tickles me
and it actually does not hurt.
It is actually because he makes me feel alive.
He makes me feel like I'm human.

College is a cancer clinic.
At this university, you either live long enough to die,
or die until you want to live.
Kids drag backpacks like bags of morphine,
and are attached to their planners like they are their heart monitors.
You do your own chemotherapy,
as you poison yourself with debt,
and Friday night nickel shots.