People look at me and call me all these names
Boys ******* use me and play all these games

I feel so alone, I can't take it anymore
I can't stand being called an ugly ******* *****

I go home and cry my eyes out
I don't know what to say, so I scream and shout

Walk into my room and open up a box
In there, are some treasures, and a few couple rocks

I dig a little deeper till I find what I'm looking for
It's the blade that wounds the thing deep inside my core

I take it out and stare at it for a while
I have so many reasons, they stretch out for a couple miles

I take my blade, walk to the bathroom, and lock the door
I look at myself in the mirror, and I am sure

What I am doing is of my own hand
These marks will leave their very own special brand

I hold the blade over my wrist
And when I bring it down, I feel pain and then bliss

The warm blood starts to trickle down
If anyone found out, they would do more than frown

I attack my wrist so vigorously
Scarring myself to **** the thing inside of me

Each and every time,  the feeling becomes addictive
For each cut becomes distinctive

This one is for the girl who told me I was full of crap
And this one is for the boy who called me fat

They didn't think I would take it to the heart
But actually, I am tearing myself apart

I do it once, twice, three dozen more times
I throw my ****** blade down and begin to cry

Why did I do this?
Even though I felt pain, I felt so much bliss

My troubles went away with each slice
The blood ran thicker down my arm, Jesus Christ

I start to sob and bury my head in my arms
When I look up, I feel the blood on my face, so warm

I get up and start to clean myself
I grab the towels that are on the shelf

After I see that there is no more blood
I go to my room and my emotions begin to flood

I lay in bed, hiding the scars buried deep in my wrist
I think about the hate, and my eyes begin to mist

The front door opens, and my mother come inside
She comes in my room, noticing that I have recently cried

She asks me what is wrong
I tell her in this world I don't belong

She sees my wrist and puts her hand up to her face
Oh, Allison, you belong here in this place

Please promise me you won't cut yourself ever again
One day you will hit a major vein

No one wants to lose you, your precious smile
The question is, do you want to stay with us for a little while?

"I don't feel anymore."
"I really envy that."

I turned on my side, the sun was peering through the window and laying ribbons of its light across her bare body. "You shouldn't envy that, Reno."

"Why shouldn't I?"
"Okay. Well, why do you?"

Her hand waved a lock of blond from obstructing her icy-blue sight. I could see the shadows of birds dance across her torso and past her face. "I'm afraid," her words spiraling from her mouth, "and I don't want to be."

"Afaid of what?"
"Everything. The world. Hunger. Bleach stains. Failure. ****** knuckles and the look of the person as they clench their nose, teary eyes and all. This. My father finding me. Dying before I get to do everything I want to do. Validation. I'm afraid of everything and I'm too young to be afraid of everything. I need two to four more years, tops."

Ten, twenty, and fifty seconds rained down the window. It felt like the wall of an aquarium, and us the aqua-blue evolution.

Rolling to her side, her hand blossomed around the curvature of my face, as I didn't know what to say. "Josh," her breath evaporating into syllables, "I'm too young for the world, so help me forget, okay?" My eyes followed her soft fingertips capped by lily fingernails, as her index and ******* walked from my stomach to between my legs.


After we made love, the water lowered on top of our heads and bodies as the steam rose. My hair was flattened against my skull, and her's gripping her back. Soap slid across her *******; lathering her abdomen, I asked her if I could see the soap. Reno scrubbed my chest and leaned into kiss me before placing it into my hand.


"When you're famous, who do you think you'll sleep with," she asked while stirring her coffee. Placing the muddy spoon on the table, she looked and added, "Who's your celebrity crush?"

"I'm not sure," I sipped my coffee before placing it next to my bagel,"I don't know."

"It's okay, buck. I know you'll forget about me when you become big, so just say."

I couldn't believe it.

"Okay, well, what's your wish, Reno?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Say who you'd sleep with."

"Well, after I carelessly throw you to the side, I'll probably sleep with Parker Posey. Then, I'll go on a date with Emma Watson and hope that goes well," I regretted the way I spoke. "Like, I can understand the question, but what's up with the second part about me leaving you?"

Reno flicked the side of her coffee cup, and then drummed. "I don't know."

"I can't do the whole you feeling like you're not good enough for me. You are. You just are. I don't want it to happen because I really like you, but I won't allow myself to go farther if you insist on the... I mean, what's wrong?"

"I don't know," she she flicked her coffee cup harder, "I don't know."

"You know, Reno. You can tell me."

Tears sat at her eyes and they disappeared in the glare, as she looked out the cafe window. "It's not easy, you know."

"What isn't?"

"Loving you," she began to rip at the skin around her thumbnail,"it's not easy because I'm afraid. I'm afraid because it might be real."

Her eyes shifted towards me, the way her hair broke the echo of sunlight. Cancer cells.

"I'm dying, Josh. Whether you love me too or not, for one year to ten to never, you'll be with other girls because I'm dying. And that's that."

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

As those without the sight to see
Sought might through vicious poetry
And thought through use of broken word
Their mouths might mew unlike the herd
So dark the tint of selfish dreams
So bright the lies, false passion gleams
But now they choke and fall from grace
Having never lit our smoky space.

Comb every strand of hair,
Clean every part of your body
And look at them
Appreciate them.

2.
Dress up.
**** society's expectation
Wear your FAVOURITE colour
Wear your mood.

3.
Always prepare for rainy days.
Bring an umbrella,
Bring your sweater
Bring some money,
For warm coffee/tea.

4.
Go out and explore.
Visit cafés and treat yourself,
Visit book shops & libraries
Inhale the aroma of freshly brewed coffe,
The nostalgic smell of old, yellow papers.

5.
Be okay with what you do,
Say things that are on your mind.
Who cares about what people think?
You are who you are
And you're perfect.

6.
Even if you can't love yourself
Always remember that there's a greater God,
whose love is boundless.
Hey, even the birds in the sky,
The flowers on the ground
Fishes in the sea
Have been taken care of by "him"
What else you a human being!

Sutcliffe brings
a magazine
to school
(his old man's
he tells us)
and we group in
under the shelter
near the outside bogs.

He opens it
page by page;
his fingers shaky,
his eyes, blue,
enlarged,
peer the page.

Look at the state
of her,
O’Brien says.

I look over
his shoulder
at the naked dame.

Can you imagine
Miss A doing this
from our old school?
I suggest.

Don't make me puke,
O’Brien says.

What the ****'s that?
Sutcliffe asks,
pointing a finger.

It's where
you were born from,
Davies says.

Can't be,
Sutcliffe says,
I was born
in Guy's hospital.

Your mother,
poor cow,
has one of those,
O’Brien says.

Sutcliffe pulls a face
as if he'd bitten
a lemon.

Shan't look at her
the same way again,
he replies.

Turn the page,
I say,
see something other.

He turns the page,
a centrefold,
opens it out,
arms outstretched,
eyes widening.

Wouldn’t say no
to her,
O’Brien says,
scanning in
like a swooping air plane
to dive bomb.

Me, neither,
Sutcliffe mutters.

I see Sutcliffe's
inky fingers shake
on the edges
of the magazine;
the woman has big eyes
peering out,
her nose has an air
of: had your gawk?
We just stare,
no place
to waste words,
we stand,
open mouthed
and don’t talk.

When my sun is down
But you're feeling up to something,
I'd catch the closest train
To take us to the world.
A world away from here

Or I'd build a fort in the living room
Complete with a damsel in distress
Only if it meant that
Your fingertips
Could save the words I
Could not speak

Or I'd float above the ceiling
To a cloud by which holds
the name of Ten
Ten, Ten. Tender
To the touch

I am no great
literary piece,
but an atom in a world
full of molecules.
Attracted to the valence
of allure

Would you catch my dreams
Somewhere in your arms?
Be the ocean for my raindrops?
Find me a picture
To smile at
In the cotton ball sky?

Be the rustle in the trees
and the stone that created
a perfect skip?
Be my glass of wine
at the end of the day
or the perfect blotch of paint
that makes the picture whole?

Because I find a beauty
Somewhere in your stranger heart.
I've imagined every life
except the one I have.
As you pass me by
I'll never have to guess what
Could have been.
I already know.

walks to cabinet
"Are you are you, coming to the tree? They strung up a man. They say who murdered three. Strange things did happen here no stranger would it be. If we met at midnight, in the hanging tree."
gets painkillers
"Are you are you, coming to the tree? *opens bottle Where dead man called out, for his love to flee. Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be. If we met at midnight, in the hanging tree"
*swallows pills