These Lines:
etched and edged,
well-distinct and ill-defining,
clarifying and disguising,
multifarious characters,
multivariate natures.
nefarious and courageous.

thickened thinnings,
straightforward curvings,
appointed and unanointed,
given, taken, and then
redrawn, misshapen.

both boundary and limitations,
goal reached, unending destinations,
a human's realm of indefinite definitions,
These Lines:
mappings of his domain,
recordings of his failings.

my great divide,
testimonies to my endings,
visual markers of
virtuous past successes,
virtual future failures invadings.

How can they be both simultaneous?

These Lines:
double etched and sword edged,
outbound-triumphant, defending,
inbound-plaintive, wailing,
both an indefensible and defensive blade,
cutting, both ways.

*PostScript:
The twenty eight of the month of Feb-rue-ary,
clear enough ending to the muddiest, contrary,
turgid month of the ifs of a man's life.

Raindrops pelted the lush ferns
in a melody meant to soothe,
the babbling brook added
percussion to the crows overhead
as I crossed over the fallen log
& heard the bullfrogs
kissing wood spirits.

Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday to me
Happy Birthday dear Mystery
Happy Birthday to me
Finally turned eighteen
Let's light some candles
And I'll make a wish
On the count of three
One...
Two.....
Three...
*I wish I had never been born

the sun matters.
i'm just saying.
it matters.

it matters that things
be alive
  and green
it just does.

eddie pepitone matters.
playing songs on repeat for hours on end matters.
rangpur matters.
  ice cream friggen matters.
i'm just saying. it does.

having a brother that gets it
matters.
laughing so hard i cry
     matters...it really does.
even the trumpeter on my balcony
thinks so.

every day presents
a new gift

Let's talk about suicide.
Nasty word-
Isn't it?
So gross
But I feel it controlling me
And pushing the blood through my veins

We hate to talk about it
When it happens,
We speak of it only
Over cups of coffee
A muttered secret to a close friend
Words spilling out of our mouths like ****

So.
Gross.

So gross, in fact
That when I was twelve years old
And took the amount of pills I thought necessary to end a life
I couldn't bring myself to tell my mother to take me to the hospital
And instead lay awake
Terrified of what was going to happen
Until I went upstairs
Shoved a toothbrush down my throat
And spewed ***** that tasted of tylenol extra-strength
Of hopes gone and lost
Of secrets never to be told
Of a little girl scared of what was going to come next.

My mom never found out
Because it was

So.
Gross.

And even now
Years later
When I'm walking down a flight of stairs
Steep enough to snap a neck
I have to pause
And say to myself
"No, Diana. Not today.
You still have things to do."
And sometimes, it's really hard
Because I don't have anything left to do
I'm tired and sick and fat and useless
And I wish I wasn't here
I have no friends no family
Nothing left to speak of
Just a numb throbbing in my head

When it's really bad, I ask myself what would happen if I had died that day
The answer scares me.

So.
Gross.

Is that gross?
Yes, it's repulsive, I agree.
But you know what?
I lived. I'm still here, even if I don't want to be
And I still wake up and get dressed
I still cover my scars with jewelry and makeup
I still hold the pills in my hand
And stand at the stairs and say

"Not today, Diana.
You still have things to do."