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3:00 A.M.
Smoke escapes my lips as I ponder existence.
Death.
Darkness.
Depression.
All just words that burn like this bowl.
And at the end
We all end up in smoke.
I stared at your picture.
Your eyes pierced me,
Like knives of ice,
And I die a little more.
They catch in my throat
And it hurts so much,
All the emotions feel
Like swallowing razors.
I feel the warm trickle,
Taste the bitter iron of regret.
And I die a little more.
Haven't written in years, still depressed. Maybe some day I won't be.
I don't know if this makes sense
But my garden grows inward.
It takes the rain of negativity
And wraps itself around sensitivities.
Trauma grows like roots around my heart
And drains the calcium from my bones.
Blooming into ingrown flowers
Dark with the fresh blood of regret.
My fruits rot inside the ground
Fertilizing the soil for a new inverted crop.
My memories spread into Ivy
Growing inward choking my circulation.
My body absorbs Toxins like Water
Feeding the weeds in my head
Which grow inside and knot themselves
Into Tumors of Longing.
I don't know if this makes sense
But my garden grows inward.
Having fun as always
It was the weight of you sat resting against my knees.
The ease with which your features lit up around me.
"He likes boys" you tell me.
And I smile back,
as wide as I can stretch my lips.
I try to make my face beam like his.
I try to match his effortless moon face.
And remember what it is like to thrive off simple joys.
For I am 28, and felt the cynicism of life's scorn.
I have weathered worn skin and a patch of white hairs in my beard.
But, I swear I will never let you see the furrowed brow of a frown around me.
And I thought of being a father and it struck me how natural holding someone else's son felt.
I couldn't help but steal nervous glances at his father for fear of taking his place.
Walking straight into it, as if putting on his shoes.
Sometimes I wonder
How many others
have frequented this same spot,
have felt heavy limbs drop.
Passive to what came next-
As if no amount of questioning could save their fate.
Have had their heart broken at King's Cross Station..

What possessed you to purchase a one way train ticket-
skipping school, breaking a perfect attendance record
seemingly on a whim?
Starting a new term, boredom ensued,
adventure beckoned.
Recent changes in behaviour surely set the scene.

Were you summoned by false promises-
Lured into the arms of a man you felt compelled to meet
On a week day, in the city?
I could have sat in the same train carriage
I could have met your eye.
Remembering the whirlwind that was, 14.
Writing in a diary no one would ever read.
Shredding into pieces, aged 18.
Forgive me,
I couldn't fathom seeing 18, at, 14.
Far fetched in forgetting time marches on,
being stuck in a place of pain.
Clinging on to suggestive song lyrics,
suggesting being Queer was okay.

Did he tell you it would be Okay?

You wore your favourite band t-shirt, had awoken late
in an irritable mood that morning.
Out of character, they said.
They traced any internet activity  
any possible CCTV sightings.
You had lost a mobile phone over a year ago.
The trail of answers quickly ran cold
the stream of questions would never end.

Your dad felt you might have struggled with your sexuality
though you never explicitly said anything.
Shame can embody you, silence you.
At 14 it can surely threaten to suffocate you!
I still ache for the shame I let cover curious green eyes,
for the sugar mouse she promised me at 14,
for the arms I kept by my sides.
''It gets better'' is the narrative attempt to reassure you on YouTube,
but how many difficult years must first pass until it is bearable?

Hindsight is a luxury afforded only with time.

Sometimes I wonder
How many others
have frequented this same spot,
have felt heavy limbs drop.
Passive to what came next-
As if no amount of questioning could save their fate.
Have had their heart broken at King's Cross Station?
 Nov 2016 Francisco DH
Love
"God. You're so ugly without your makeup. You know you really shouldn't show your face in public. You don't want to end up on that People of Walmart website."

Yeah I know.

"No seriously. You look like you've been hit by a bus."

Nope. Not hit by a bus. Just your ****** comments.

"You know they say sarcasm is just a deflection of an internal struggle, it's an underling issue to something bigger. Maybe you're going crazy."

I'm not going crazy. I'm getting my **** together. I'm in college now.

"Yeah, sure."

No. I wake up at a reasonable hour everyday. I take a shower and do my hair and make up. I do my homework and I make good grades. How can I be crazy when I'm getting my **** together. I have my **** together!

"Look at your room."

What about it?

"It's a mess."

So what?

"It's a mess. Just like you are. You are a mess."

I am not.

"You can shut the door and pretend it doesn't exist. Just like you're doing with that mask you put on every morning. Beyond these walls you're a fake. But behind them, they show who you truly are."

And what's that?

"That you're crazy and chaos. Your room represents what's on the inside. You're falling apart."

I am not crazy.

"Not crazy? As if. You've just been talking to your reflection for the past 10 minutes. Just like you have every day for the past four years. Just wait sweetie, one day I'll come out and play."
 Nov 2016 Francisco DH
Love
Xanax
 Nov 2016 Francisco DH
Love
I can't tell you what it's like to feel like dying.
I can't tell you how I'm so afraid of death but I play with it like its a childhood friend.
I can't tell you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for the 47th night in a row.
I can't tell you how I feel when I wake up screaming in the middle of the night.
I can't tell you, but I can show you.
I can show you what it's like to feel like dying in my playful smile and dull eyes.
I can show you what it's like to be afraid of death but play with it because I have scars on my body but I refuse to go to a funeral.
I can show you what it's like to cry yourself to sleep for 47 nights in a row by my blood shot eyes and bags underneath with tear stains covering my pillow.
And I can show you how It feels to wake up in the middle of the night screaming by the empty Xanax bottle in the bottom of my purse.
I can't always tell you the things that are going through my mind, but you can't say that I never showed you.
Im back yall.
 Nov 2016 Francisco DH
Love
After that night the bags under my eyes never went away and streams of white hair made their appearance.
My insides felt like they were planning a revolt and every bit of humanity I had left vanished with a siren like shriek.
My tears felt like acid and the carpet still looks bleached where they fell from the waterfall on my face.
My breath had been stolen by the two ton weight on my chest and I didn't want it back.
My heart had proclaimed its demise because surely nothing can strive after being torn in two.
My eyes wept, my mind wept, even the hands that you used to hold so dear have wept.
After that night my fear has never went away, and even with death, my love never will.

*Some broken hearts just cannot mend.
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