love
lust
longing
look
look out
look me in the eye
blue eyes
green eyes
window to the soul
doors
lock
unlock
look
look at me
turn the key
closed
shut
drawn
scribble
stay in the lines
drawn
drown
sink
spiral
fall
fell
help
stop
look out
look for help
look me in the eye
look
see
sea
drowning
you're drowning
splash
dive
swim
water
land
sand
hand
hold my hand
look me in the eye
pick me up
pick
flowers
roses
daisies
your favorite
pick
*****
blood
bleed
bleeding
you're bleeding
stop
look
look at the mess
you are a mess
mess
messy
disaster
earthquake
fault lines
fault
your fault
this is your fault
this
look
look at this
look at me
stop
wait
breathe
look
look me in the eye

remember when she was still little?
remember her room and her toys
that doll she never left home without
do you remember its name?
remember when she jumped in your bed night after night
remember when she screamed in her sleep
remember how her nightmares made her too scared to move
do you remember what she dreamt about?
think of her first day of school
remember walking her to the bus stop
her bouncing with excitement
don't remember her this way.
remember anything but this day.
don't remember how her shoulders shook as you tried to hold her
don't remember her screams
don't remember how she didn't need nightmares to keep her awake anymore
please don't remember the note you found on the carpet
or the window cracked open
please
because even though she couldn't remember her dolls or her curls or how she danced when she got excited
you have to
you have to remember her laugh
you have to remember when she was happy
her mind stole all she remembered about love
about stillness
but you can't
please.
remember her.

I've always wondered what everyone's reactions would be if/when I die. I'd want them to be sad, even if that's not what most people would say after the fact. I wouldn't want to go unmissed. I wouldn't want people to shrug it off like they do most things now. I want them to dwell on it and wonder about the truth and write until their wrists break. I hope you, specifically, wouldn't be mad at me. I'd hope you'd understand that I did want this. I've always seen you as the most understanding when it comes to these things. You could tell them I'm in a better place because that is what they'd want to hear. And maybe I will be. Or maybe I'll burn eternally in hell. Or maybe I'll just cease to exist entirely. Will I even be aware of anything after? Point being, no one knows what happens to me but this is what I wanted and stands as the most courage I've ever built up at once. I don't think it will be scary. I really don't want my death to be the cause of someone else's (I'm crying while writing this as it is so amazingly confident and vain it's almost funny, really). Maybe suicide is a bit selfish, as an old teacher once said. At this point I don't care about my reputation, especially after I'm gone. It is a little worrisome that everything I write ends up sounding like a suicide note. I don't know if I would have the guts to go through with it when the moment came. And I know that if that happened I would hate myself more than ever. I'm sorry for the awful handwriting and scattered thoughts. I'm trying to write whatever comes to mind. A glimpse into my life, as you might say.

This book is for her, because she deserves more than just some gaddamn letter that my shaky hands could barely finish. Because she believed that we were all more than a few scribbled sentences on the inside cover of a notebook that has already been filled with pain (that's why this page is in the middle, and why this whole book is yours to keep or destroy or write about). I hope this is more than a couple of paragraphs pieced together on mismatched napkins, accidentally written while making a grocery list. You mean so much more to me than some **** book that you will one day write on a searching-for-happy afternoon, and your insanity makes more sense to me than anything else I've ever seen or felt or imagined. You said to leave something great in my absence and that, my friend, is why I am leaving you.

I've always hated my bony fingers
a skeleton
I've been meaning to ask you
if that's why you used to shiver when you held me.
it must've been awful holding something so lifeless
knowing I was little more
than bones.

I don't feel the shivering anymore
and when you
hold me, you
hold me like I'm the one who
needs to be steadied

and I think that's what happens when someone dies.

you will finally grasp that I'm gone
that the skin and bones you used to hold
which distressed your heart
and whittled at your brain like a knife
with aches and tears that
begged for your help
left
for good.

you do all you can to fix this
all in your power to bring me back.
the knife I have made will cut inside and out to
search for anything
anything you could've done to save me

and I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I have ruined you from the beginning
but all I ever wanted was to see you steady
standing alone
and I know you couldn't do that with
this skin and
these bones
laced between your bony fingers

empty cups
curtained windows
and a bible that hasn't been opened since they told you there's a chance.
clusters of papers-
                             rejected-
                                          coupled with
that old journal you vowed to never open again.
the orange bottles need to be
                                                refilled.
unma­de bed
beat up tissue box.
                                                            ­                  no one gets it.

this is sanctuary.
                            this is how you start to live again.
                                                          ­                             no one knows about
                                                           ­                                            the used to be.
the full cup
the bolted windows
the brainwashing
the attempted letters
and the pages decorated with a different kind of ink.

they don't know about
the thoughts before the pills
the never-empty bed
the fits of anger.
                                                          ­                       this is how you start to live                        
                                                                ­                                                    again.

something about the way i can
feel more confident
with less clothes and
something about
the way i have an
easier time looking in the mirror
when i know you'd
be staring at me like
you hadn't touched another body
in ten thousand years.

there's something wrong about the way i can only feel
                                                            ­                                hot
                             ­                                                                 ­    worthy
                                                      ­                                                        accomplis­hed
                      when i know you're looking at me with more emotion than you've ever known to be possible because
                                                         ­            you can't see me without thinking about the fact that my body will never be under yours again.

                                                         ­                                                 there's something wrong about the way people can walk ten galaxies away but never leave us.