Sweet, Lovely Sin
You feel so good
Too satisfying

Oh, what do i do?
Let go?
Of the only thing i know?

You're too tempting
Too real
Too much of me

You're too much of my character
You're the fabric of myself
All that I have ever attempted

You're my life
You're safe
You're home

So should i just leave?
Commit to light?
Over the comforting darkness?

It's too much to handle
So I'll stay
I'll change another day

sometimes my parents will ask me
"are you really going down that road again"
with such disdain and bitterness
and it just makes me so angry
because they do not realize that depression
is not a road one chooses to go down
and it is not a road one can easily exit
it is an unpaved road riddled with cracks and potholes
with no street signs or stoplights to guide us safely home
and to accuse someone of willingly taking that road?
well, that is how some of us end up there in the first place
-

I am awesome you are poo
I don't care about anything I do
I always say giggity goo
I don't get good grades
So I do parades

He told me his favorite part of summer was my hair dancing circles on his face.
He loved to gather all three feet of my locks in his hand and raise it up to toast the wind; each strand ricocheting off invisible corners of the air.
He never minded getting his fingers caught in tangles.
Twice I let him cut the elastic binding of my hair tie
just to see it all fall down my body.

I stood calm and sober starring into an unfamiliar bathroom mirror as I made his favorite part of summer fall into piles around my feet.

You,
  you are the cause of your own demise
  shelling yourself away in
  a mere attic of your marvelous mind
  selectively mute
  & self-paralyzed.

      Shake your self awake now!
      I just can't seem to understand
      how such a beautiful soul
      can be so strung out of sorts
      when my tiny heart
      pumps all of it's oxygen to provide
      some sort of love & support.

          Heart beat, fingers on your pulse
          lets race our hearts
          till we've nothing but beaten pulps.
          In all of my small wounds
          I've made, remind me
          to fill them with salt.

              I've slit my throat
              here's your perfect American movie scene
              slow, merciless & know, if
              it helps you breathe-
              every time your name escapes my cracked lips,
                                                                                

                                                                                                       I bleed.