Sitting, staring at the wall
days go by,
minutes fly
but still this memory
plays over and over in my head
making my heart beat faster
and my throat close up
My hands start to sweat
and my eyes flutter closed
my breathing picks up
and i scream

Scream from the pain
scream to forget
I pull at my hair and
punch the wall
Until i just stop

So tired from the effort and the tears
I slowly lay my head
on the pillow and
fall into a fitful sleep

Footsteps echo inside my head,
Silent alarms start to sound,
Doors slam left and right.

Trapped and no where to go,
You sit and you plot.
What will finish her?

It’s a game,
I get it.
Make your next move,
I dare you.

I don’t need anything,
But I want everything.

Maybe I can sweat it out,
Maybe I can forget,
Maybe it’s that easy.

I never lit a match
with intent to start a fire,
but recently the flames
have gotten out of control.

My mind has reached it’s limit
One is one too many.

I pace with frustration:
This isn’t fair,
This is my life.

For you, it’s just another game.
Each move practiced and perfected,
Leaving little room for error,
Always having the upper hand.

Well guess what,
Don’t bother.
You have already lost this one.

Or so I keep telling myself.
As I wait and hope
That maybe, just maybe.

I drink just to feel
What I had with you
I drink to bend like steel
I imagine you do too

I drink because I don’t remember
What actually occurred
That dark December
When shifty lies became blurred

graveyard boy, you are all skin and bones
i cut myself on your cheeks until i am red and raw
and your heart bursts out of your chest by the marble stones

bones boy, the night seeps from inside you as the sun goes down
i count your ribs up one by one and stretch myself over your skin
cover me from this haunting that rises from your gray eyes

blood boy, you are red and screaming under flesh
i can see your spidery veins inside of your wrists
warm and speeding when your hands touch my throat

ghost boy, tie me up with ropes and lower me to the ground
let me be hollow with you and fill the spaces with silence
the moon will be gone once we have made it far enough

"We hardly speak any more."
I know it's true,
I hardly speak at all.

We used to often talk,
staying up late, letting
our words play their games.

She asked if I'd rather
live alone on an island --
in complete solitude --
or be trapped in an apartment,
only able to watch people walk by.

I said I'd rather watch the people walk by;
at least then  I could pretend that happy
people still existed.

Today it feels like I'm in that apartment,
watching people walk around me.
They don't seem happy.

I smile at them;
they never smile back.
I wonder if something's wrong with me.

I stopped talking when I started writing.
I already spelled everything out on paper,
and the words never crawl back into my mind.
If those words ever get back home,
I'll tell 'em all how I feel:

One:

You can't help anyone with words,
who needs something done.
A sentence about your love
means nothing when you're
twenty-seven hundred miles away.

Two:

Strangers are more alluring than
people you know closely;
that, my dear, is why I'm terrified
of getting any closer to you.
From a distance, you're so beautiful.

Three:

Sure, we spent a few weeks cuddled up
in your room; but your lifestyle is the reason
that I fled from Southern California.
I don't want things.

Four:

He's just going to end up killing you.
One instance of abuse should be enough
to send you packing. You crawled back for more.
I understand -- too well -- the lies that get you trapped.
I keep waiting for that phone call.

Five:

A woman should never be a reason
to abandon your old family;
although I see how her children
are your chance for redemption.

Six:

I wish we talked more often;
more than once every few months.
You're intelligent and articulate,
and the hour or two we spend
(not often enough)
fills me with hope for the world.

I want to know all of you.
The tiny blemishes that would be imperfections
If they marked up any other body but yours.
I want to know the stories behind your scars.
All the ones you've collected over the years
And display on your body
Like old books on a library shelf  
I need to thumb my fingers over those puckered patches
Of skin because all your books are written in braille
And I want my fingers to know those words
In ways your voice couldn't describe.
These welts of words make up the story of who you are.
I hope you will let me open you up
And I hope that after I read all of you
You will still know
That I will always kiss you as sweetly as I did before
I knew all your wounds.
Please know that I will not think you are any less pure
To me as you were before I understood.
Purity isn’t real anyway.
It’s a prison of a concept that’s made with
Bars of guilt and of shame
Keeping you trapped behind your past.
But you are not that to me.
You are my future
And even if I add to your seeming imperfections
And give you a few more scars
Be happy that when I re-read the braille books on your body
I will read about me too and how I want
Nothing more than to add to you.

A nightmare began to play for opened eyes
A hesitated day had finally come
Opened eyes were too dry to cry
A decision was set, already made
Decision came with a price to be paid
I waited as the drugs eased the thought before the pain
Ultimately never being the same
Listening to them plead as doors opened and closed
My name being called
Slowly I rose
Entering the room where I became a killer