I stole the flowers to my own grave,
I cleaned the floor from blood and got away.

My crime is breaking hearts and being heartbroken,
the thrill of pain I seek again, provoked.

And I keep the needles in the space between my fingers where your fingers used to be.

I call my name, I plead
in quiet desperation, I try to stay afloat,
I let my mind strike an arrow in a danger zone of imagination:
the waves as cover to my fear,
and then I squeeze my pain like a nettle in my palm
and breathe for just a fleeting moment.

I see it clearly: my first ride without side wheels,
the spring has yet to settle its’ warmer palms into April’s edges.
My parents’ cheerful encouragement is bright, and my bruised knees don’t hurt as bleeding
is not the only pain I’ve learnt to feel by now.

I see my heart be gently broken and I break someone else’s heart —
I hate myself for that,
I hate myself,
I’m back,
I’m back to drowning.
The rapid flow of sorrow is fitting between my ribs like a habit I hoped I buried before.

I call my name again.
My entire body is shivering in a steamed bathroom, I hold onto the cold of sink
and I’m sinking again,
the ringing in my ears gets quieter —
I feel it.
Feel the tickling dark to move from the back of my head towards my temples,
it puts its palm on my weakest shoulder —
the one I keep for all my loved ones to lean on.

I never let myself to weep,
although my face is hot and wet from streams of anguish I cannot keep inside.

I picture my younger self in the greatest pain on a hallway floor while nurse
hesitates and joins in lulling —
she calls my name, she pleads.

I’m picturing myself with my head and bloodstream full of meds be let outside to only snap again
and act as my worst enemy once more:
my wrists and arms are witnesses to that.

My wild violence towards myself
is what will feed the fear and self-destructive thoughts I act upon.
I’m bored and that’s my sadness’ strongest drug.

Through tiny specks of freezing water,
“It doesn’t have to be this way.”
“It does,”
I hear her trembling voice
picked up by wind and smoke —
and sleepless night still holds her wrists
although we passed the afternoon already.
It’s evening.
Not cold, but rain insists on bringing shiver to my knees.
My sympathy is pouring from my both my pockets and my heart,
and I can’t stop the other one from being broken.
Contrasts of glass, and city, people, feeling lonely. We sit so close yet far away.
The grey concrete is angry colour
of mood we share —
along with sickly sweet unfitting for this occasion drink I bought with small discount.
So forlorn.
We leave that place,
and the ordeal of life still being a constant alternation will bring us there once more.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.”
I take a pause before I answer,
“It doesn’t, but it’s how it is.”

Has anyone ever told you
that you are the most endearing person
in human existence?
Because I think you are.

With your sacred motion
that spreads along my lungs,
with your pretty laughter during
an evident silence.

Haphazard glances at vivid rays,
and your verdant eyes stare  
straight at me, and I feel blue.
I try to hide my
lasting grief and fickle spirits,
I cherish you in many ways.

I keep in mind eternal summer,
eternal bliss, eternal souls,
and our names that changed.

The story's blessed by future prays,
you, my pal, and I
are waiting.

A sudden smile on chapped lips
appeared. And I,
with a quiet breath, a timid glance,
have caught it, kept it, let it be.

And mirror shows the face I’ve known
for its solemnity and gloom
be bright and sparkling –
vibrant glow.

A hopeful tint to my joyless heart
that fought to find a smile that blooms
and stays with me right now,
for good.

I sense a lot;
my saturated feelings
consume me, eat me,
clench my heart,
and softly pet it

as though it purrs for me to move,
to breath, to keep existing,
when no existence is enough
for me to feel alive
and present.

I follow myself around my flat,
feeding the time
my contemplations;
it’s already dark by 3 in the afternoon.

I carry my turmoil
with pins in my pockets,
i keep my hands inside.

Depression boils
all my frozen insides,
makes them bland
and chewable.

Look at my seams: untouched, raw.
I sew them gently,
my hands were shaking
with almost fear
that I can't put
a needle through my soul
myself. Alone.

I am afraid to say, to be the one
who finally admits
that help comes forward,
if only I
let someone touch the seams,
and heal it,
and help me heal myself.

Panic stifles, suffocates.

My throat feels dry; a clump,
that brings disquiet in,
sticks there like a hull, a twig,
and moves its sharper edges
along my trembling soft insides.

"Get out!"
I would scream,
"Get out, worries and my fears.
Remain, serene feeling."