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I’ve swallowed too many I love you’s
to be afraid of coughing up blood.
They cut you on secret.
Who knew it was drinking gasoline
and sawdust and every little inflammable thing
and then sitting down cross-legged
in the heart of a howitzer; soft.


You are a soft explosion.
You are streaks of a rebel orange
in a sky that is supposed to be blue.
You are steel rods in the curve of my spine,
holding me straight.


I love you’s are like death notes written in ash:
you’ll have to smoke your way to it.
Smoke cigarettes, journals, curtains,
and yourself to get that much ash in your lungs;
trying to blow smoke rings into your finger;
my ceiling knows more about my sadness than you do.


Saying an I love you once will have you
chanting “don’t leave me” on a rosary;
love will take your bones and leave you
lusting for somebody whose back
is the last thing you’ll see, and whose
skin you’ll think you left your keys in:
and now you’ve locked yourself out
of your own house, in a storm
whose sirens wail in your ears and remind
you, you’re hopeless and homeless.


I love you’s leave no exit wounds,
no shell casings, and when the time comes
you’ll be telling them all how his bullet
ricochets in your ribs,
but emotion never made up for evidence
in the court of settlements for a broken heart.


Telling someone you love them is like cutting your jugular
and not expecting to bleed out.


I love you like the pages of a mad girl’s journal.


The moon turns from an ally
to the haunting image of science and realisation:
you share the same sky, but no longer the same bed.
And astronomy keeps ******* you over
when you look up at the sky
and no longer understand constellations.


Love makes it more getting-back-at-you
than getting-back-together-with-you.


Every time you taste blood,
you’ll know you kissed somebody
with teeth like needles
and they cut you everywhere; they
bit you, they bit you, they bit you
and you kept letting them.
 Oct 2013 Kimberly
I know you'll be reading this.
So here goes...
There are 6 billion beating hearts
Around you.
Creating the background music,
To your life.
A lot of those are rocks.
Then us.
Darling, there is at least one,
Who knows your struggle.
Who knows the feeling of sharp metal.
On soft petaled skin.
And your favourite dinner,
Being counted for calories, then left.
In the microwave.
You are not the only one almost fluttering,
Off a building.
Or the first pretty face to be whirled,
Into failure.
Consumed in self hate and disorder,
With a side of relapse.
But if you can't find a rock,
Whose heart beats in time to yours,
Then flutter back into my arms.
We will fly away in the morning.
 Oct 2013 Kimberly
Victoria Kiely
The rain beat the pavement as the man ran to a nearby bus shelter holding a newspaper over his ragged hair. The rain hitting the glass was nearly deafening, but there was comfort in the sound. A public transit bus comes and goes, recognizing the bleak figure immediately. This was, after all, his commonplace - the closest thing he had to a home in the past two years.
"Get a job", people would say, as if it were ever really that easy.
He had been diagnosed with depression after his wife’s passing nearly four years ago and suffered alone as he mourned and pushed through what most people see as a normal life. On the outside, it was unapparent how miserable he had become, unable to share the world with another as he had now for so many years. He came to his cubical on time each day, he worked until the late afternoon had came and went, and he left without a word. He was the unnoticed face in a crowd.
All at once, he lost his drive to live his life. He stopped showing up to work, he did not pay his bills, he didn’t answer the door or the phone. The clear print reading “EVICTION NOTICE” had meant nothing to him. He took only the essential things with him as he left behind an empty house behind. The last thing he put into his bag was a copy of the Odyssey, worn now after so many years of attentive reading.
The tattered copy sat open on his crossed legs, the moment passing by. The walls of the shelter sheild him from the wind and welcome him into their embrace. the adequecy of lighting was questionable as the sun descends and the world loses its colour. A streetlamp flickers to life and casts an ominous glow onto the street beneath it. He continues to read about the long journey of a man trying to find his way home, not unlike himself. What’s happening on the page is disconnected from thepart of the world that he is trapped on; he watches his secret world become a vivid painting beneath his hands and turns the page.
"Hello," said a man waiting for another bus to take him to a far off place.
He didn’t respond.
"I take it you like the book, judging by the condition…" The man tried again to grasp his attention. His dark figure loomed on the other side of the glass.
"I do", he said.
"What’s your name, son?"
He paused, turning to fully look at the man. “Its Tristan,” he said, contemplating the man as he stepped into the light. The man shuffled into the shelther gingerly, leaving behind the loud clack of his cane. His clothes chaffed against the skin on his legs, and he carried his fedora in his hand. He creased his face in pain as he sat beside Tristen.
"My name is Connor Wright", he breathed heavily, struggling to continue. "I have a spare copy of that book myself, laying around at home. No use to myself. Would you want to have it? I can bring it to you the same time next week"
"How do you know I will return it?"
"Perhaps I don’t want it back"
The silence stretched. “I would like that very much, sir” replied Tristan.
A dark blue bus pulled up to the stop without warning and stirred the stillness in the air. The headlights shone in their eyes and caught the edge of the mans thick-framed glasses. “I will see you next week then”
Each week came and passed as Mr. Wright began to bring Tristan books frequently, exchanging each new book for the last. “Why do you treat me with such kindness when I have nothing to give?” Tristan would ask him each week, never recieving an answer.
A year passed by in the presence of the silent agreement. Mr. Wright would often bring Tristan a warm container filled with soup, or a sandwhich left over from lunch to accompany his reading for the night.
On a cold night in april, Tristan waited at the bus stop for the greying man. He spotted him across the street as he waved to him. Tristan, flashing his increasingly more common smile, returned his vivid wave in the direction of Mr. Wright.
"Hello Tristan", he began as always with a bright smile. His distinct aroma filled the hollow bus shelter - a mix of burnt wood, but also new paper and musk, and apparent paradox. After a brief conversation, Tristan took the book out of Mr. Wright’s frail hands.
The bus arrived shortly thereafter and Mr. Wright borded the exhausted vehical, taking his time going up the short stoop of stairs.
This book was rather unlike the other books that Mr. Wright had given him in the past months. His books had usually been full of journeys abundant with creatures, or filled to the brim with a quaint scenery, embodying an allegory in a far off place. The book he held in his hands was called “Darkness Visible”. It was a self-help book for those in the winter of their lives, much as Tristan was, though he hated to admit it.
He opened the page of the book and the spine cracked as the smell of fresh ink and paper filled his senses. This book was new.
He read with curiousity at first, which later turned to deep interest, and later still, turned into inspiration. The following week, Tristan returned this book to Mr. Wright as he told him that he would not be returning to the bus stop with any more new books. “I wish to see you again in the future”, he said, handing Tristan a slip of paper with his name and phone number on it.
Many years passed by and the two men kept regular contact, discussing the endevours of Tristan and his success in his new life.
"Doctor Spense, you have a visitor" his secretary informed him in her usual airy tone.
"Send them in, please"
A man with strong lines creased into his face turned the door handle and entered his office at Kingston University. Commonalities were exchanged and the man fought back a solemn look as he took a seat across from Tristan. The armchair engulphed him.
"Doctor Spense, I’m sorry to inform you that Mr. Connor Wright passed away this morning as he succumed to his long fight against cancer", he spoke as though he had said these words in practise. "I am here because you were included in his will and we need to speak about legalities".
Mr. Wright had left him his entire collection of books, including that first copy of the Odyssey that Tristan had cherised so many years earlier when he had had nothing else. As he opened the familliar book, an envelope fell to the ground.
He stooped to the ground to pick up the white sheet and put it in the pile of other loose pages when he saw in handwriting, “To Dr. Tristan Spense”.
He read the words and tears filled his eyes, prickling at the corners and pooling in the clear canvas of skin before his jaw.

"The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty…" - Mother Teresa
I treated you kindly holding the knowledge that you would have nothing to give in return because I saw something I once saw within myself during the darker days of my time. I helped you because I knew your soul would rot and perish in a sickly way should you go unnoticed. I helped you because I hate faith in you and knew you had the kind of illness that could be taken away with the love of a friend. I hope that I have been able to give you the medicide loneliness, desparity and hopelessness and that your cabinets are stocked full. Remember where you have come from, and remember that it is always darkest before dawn.
Your friend always,
Connor Wright
 Oct 2013 Kimberly
Kristi D
I wish relationships worked like they did when we were younger.
I like you, you like me,
Let’s be together.
No games, no worries, just love.
Obviously, that love we felt back then wasn’t love love.
It wasn’t the kind people write books and make movies about.
Such a simple story would never sell copies or tickets.
But love is still love, no matter what form it’s in.
So let the movies have heartbreaking tales,
Star-crossed lovers doomed to fail from the moment they met.
I want love like a six-year-old,
Where a boy pulls your hair and says you have cooties.
And your mom wipes your tears,
Saying it’s only because he likes you.
And sure enough, the next day you two are married on the playground.
I want love like sixth grade,
Where your friends all giggle about your crush.
But you like him anyway,
Because he thinks you’re pretty despite the frizzy hair and braces.
So you become a couple,
Holding hands at recess and sitting together at lunch.
After that things become complicated.
People play games,
Saying one thing and doing another.
Love is no longer straightforward.
It becomes a roller coaster ride that you’re not even sure you want to be on anymore.
I am cynical
I am lost
I tie anchors to my feet
and complain when I drown
I am clingy, corrupt
I need so many people
yet I push them away
when they get too close
I am broken
I am scarred
I build my walls
and I tear them down
I'm lonely, tired, sad
I am a mess.
Make sense of me?
 Oct 2013 Kimberly
 Oct 2013 Kimberly
i am a waste of time and space;
if only my mistakes were erased,
then i could run to you
and make our hearts brand new...
my girl, she can't make me feel
'cause my thoughts just make me reel.
there's no where left for me-
pathetic's all i'll ever be.
just remember, you're the one who left,
and with you, my heart, your greatest theft.
things are darkest in my soul;
**** this, i need a bowl
i need my fix, my pill, my blow
i need my smoke, my dope, my snow
 Sep 2013 Kimberly
 Sep 2013 Kimberly
What once was forever
Has now dissolved into liquid yesterdays

What once was daily
Has now become sobering silence

What once was carved in stone
Has now eroded in to a hollow cavern of dust

What once was hi-def
Has faded faded faded faded faded to black
 Sep 2013 Kimberly
I always seem to go through stages of sadness
One situation leads to multiple crashes
Splashes of disasters
Walls closing in
No air
Too far to swim
I know they never last
But always come back
They take hold of my life
And tonight
I shut the world out
Forgive me for what I may blurt out
I can say I'm not happy
That my life is ******
I can take what I've learned
And grow from it, I am sure
I don't really know what else to say
My feelings are spinning today
Hit fast forward
Don't need a replay
I need to get away
To a place
That appreciates who I am
My friends all know me as the brave one
What's so brave about telling the world you're the gay one
My family doesn't understand me
I can never make them happy
We barley agree on what to eat for dinner
Let alone whether I have the right to marry
I feel very alone
Have lots of friends by my side
But sometimes I don't want to be alive
I'll throw my phone at the wall
Contemplate who I am
If you saw inside me maybe you'd understand
But until then
I'll express myself the best way I know how
And for now
I'll stare at my ceiling
Until I fall fast asleep and dream about a perfect place for you and me
My alarm will go off
I will be alive
No suicide
I'll just prioritize
Until I am finally happy
 Sep 2013 Kimberly
maybella snow
it has been some time
since i've been awake at
       i forgot how
quite and peaceful it is
where i'm only just
                         tired enough
                that the thoughts
don't really matter now
                     and memories are just
            a faint fuzz
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