I don’t know if I’d really call it hope.
It’s a thought.
Growing
like a bacteria in a confined cupboard
no one opens, for fear
of asbestos poisoning.
The thought that I will one day talk to you again. 
 Maybe a long way from now.
But being able to see you,
and hold your hand,
and ask you things.
Perhaps even hear you say
that it’s okay.
And you understand, you know?
Maybe that is hope.
I don’t think it’s exactly wishful thinking,
because that’s something that’s done
if a realistic expectation had potential
to be met
but god
maybe you’re just a rotting body
shoved into the cavity of the Earth,
stowed away
out of sight
just like this one
maybe-hopeful-wishful-thinking-thought.

There’s a 7-11 by my dads house.
At that 7-11 resides
the worlds last pay phone.
On the pay phone is a sign that reads:
Need help? Call God at 777.
Each time,
just for good measure,
I pick up the receiver
and dial the three holy numbers.
Each time,
I hear
“The caller you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.”

It's all in the technique, they say
But if you have the desire
If you have the drive
That's the easy part.
Yet still,
Execution is key.

Let us use an example
Fibbing about your whereabouts?
Know your audience
Know what they want to hear
Know what they will believe
And how much they will believe.

Details make a scarlet deception ivory
They truly create the white lie
It becomes obvious if you are too vague.
Trust me, I know.

Look them dead in the eye
Don't laugh, but don't be too serious.
Just think about what you would say
Under normal circumstances.

If you get this far,
I pose a question of irony to you.
Why would you trust me?
After all,
I am a liar.

It's all the same,
To lie to you.
To lie to him
To lie with me.

Increasingly distorted memories
   slowly succumbing to darkness
Some fallen, some forced into
   the oubliette of my subconscious

Figures of the past linger tentatively
   before receding into shadow
Familiar strangers they do seem
   as if merely remnants of dreams

The looking glass of childhood friends
   mirrors an unrecognizable effigy
An idealized reflection of a former self
   unflinching in its accusatory glare

Whispers persist from imprisoned depths
   for I am silently being recalled to life
Somehow I've forgotten how to be
   the only person I've ever wanted to be

Somehow I've forgotten how to be me

Broken words, broken hearts
Bones shatter like glass
Blood is spilled on paper
All it does is tell us who you are
Or what they have done to you.

The knife in your hand writes a story
All over your skin.
If we look closely, it answers questions
Questions link your past together.

What was your father like?
When did your friend die?
Did your uncle touch you?

Your answer to every question is
"I don't remember"
"It's not important."
"I don't know."

If we looked closely enough,
We would see the truth.
We would see that
Your yearning for control
Is seeping through your sweat soaked pores
Is secreted from the dry blood on your wrists
Is flooding from your tear stained eyes.

This is all you have
And you pray to God it's enough
To keep you alive.

When you realize you don't belong anywhere
When you have no place to hide
No place to find love

It would be so easy to just end it all
A rope
A pill
A knife
A small little step out of the edge
That is all it takes to end it
To get out

When you realize it doesn't matter what you do
Nothing will ever satisfy them
When you can't do anything because they told you that

That is when you have to stand tall
You still have yourself
That is all that matters

Do not give up
Do not let them win
Do not disappear.

In my home, I have been:
Afraid to talk about certain things,
Most things.
Fearful to express my views
With the possibility of getting jumped on.
Taught that I am worthless
Or at least
Worth less than most other people my age.
Told that I am selfish.
Shamed.
Sheltered.
A disgrace.
Misunderstood.

I will talk to my children about ***,
Safe ***, the way it was never discussed with me.
But if my daughter comes home pregnant,
I will not banish or brand her.
I will continue to love her.

I will not force any religion down their throats.
I may expose them to some,
But they can feel free to tell me that it is not for them
And we will try something else.
I want them to come to believe in something,
Not feel that they have to.

If my daughter brings home a girlfriend,
Or my son a boyfriend,
I will embrace them.
My household will be open and accepting.
My children will not have any reason to fear
Expressing themselves.
Their true selves.
The thing I could never express.

I will not overlook it if my child has scars on her wrist
Skips meals
Shows signs of abuse.
I will not tell myself
That this cannot happen.
But I will try to help her,
Not diagnose her
Or shame her out of her behaviors.

I will accept my children
For everything for which I was ridiculed.

Your arms and legs are the sky
Full of formations of stars
That used to be clear
When the sun used to shine

But with darkness comes night
And with night comes being alone
Cringing at the sound of silence
So many questions
Now imperfect visions
Of what used to be constellations
Blurred through the telescope

The clocks are backwards turning
Stomach uncomfortably churning
Although it's concerning
That your heart is burning
Those pills mean no returning
From where you're leaning towards going

You can't go down there

Down in the ground
When your body was found  
You seemed to have drowned

The thought of it sends you away
Mind now spinning
Like the Milky Way's silky waves
Swirling in a circle down the drain
The color of crimson red
Or down the toilet
Like your last meal

All you have left
Is the darkness
From your fingertips to your toes
And those dark constellations
Sweeping across your arms and legs
Like the night sky

The other day my mother told me
I should be a writer.
I did not have the heart to tell her
that I am everything but a writer.
I hear too much in silences.
I think oceans are often lonely,
and trees don't always want to let go.
More than half of my books
are less than halfway finished.
Someone once told me,
"You're too young to be so old",
but I didn't notice,
I was too busy losing things
I never had.
I'm not weak,
I'm just broken.
Most days are overwhelming;
I often think of not existing.
You should try it sometime,
it's peaceful knowing you don't
mean anything to anyone.
It's a shame sadness seeps
through fingertips, otherwise
one day I might write; even though
I am everything but a writer.