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Kelly Weaver Nov 2018
sometimes i think about the way a heavy snowfall mutes all surrounding noise
what beauty is capable of.
though different, this beauty is also in the rain
and the way its droplets tap on our windows.
i wonder if people can communicate in a way so graceful,
perhaps loving stares and skin-on-skin suffice.

i wish people could be beautiful in the way sunsets are.
i wish there was a word for the way sun shimmers against ocean waves
or the feeling that overcomes your body when you know the sea is nearby,
though it hasn't come int view just yet.
i wish the moonlight that dances on my skin had a feeling,
in the same way that sunlight does.

if i could recreate this world, i'd do it differently
i'd give sound to the sizzling of asphalt on a hot summer day
the sun itself may have a soft hum as well.
the twinkling of stars would mimic chimes
the only thing i wouldn't have to change is your smile
that already brings me warmth.
Kelly Weaver Nov 2018
my story exists in the lower keys
the ones that strike your heartstrings and echo in your empty chest.
it lies in the shadows just outside of the glow that a streetlight provides
on a dark, cold night.
check the bruises on your arms, and the slashes on your legs
it'll be there, too.
it's in the nights spent sitting in the shower with the water running cold
the numbness, that's it.
it's feeling too weak to get out of bed in the morning
and having only the energy to stare at the wall.
the tiny cut on your finger you didn't know was there until you squeezed a lime
it's the stinging.
that's where I exist
in the pain
in the dark
in the lower keys.
Kelly Weaver Nov 2018
my mom tended to boast of my upbringing in the sense that it was elementary
her definitive point being that I never cried.
legend says I was all beam and no whimper
and I had the most beautiful voice when I sang.
it tends to be a woe-some memory these days.
of late, instances where one could catch a genuine grin belonging to myself are slim to none.
my mom tends to jest on the subject, claiming I must be making up for lost time (and lost tears)
and maybe that's why she's avoided contacting a therapist.
she's yet to witness the worst of it.

crying on a schedule seems a bit insane until you take into account the secondhand anguish.
I'd rather cry alone than force someone else to hear my sobs
I'd rather mourn in isolation than bring similar energies out of others
it just tends to get desolate.
sometimes I slip up and my sorrow surfaces in an undesired way,
forcing others to witness my **** truth.
these are the instances I dread
for shame and sorrow are lovers,
fingers intertwined, clasped around my throat as you watch me struggle to breathe.

I feel sad for my mom when she boasts of my demeanor as a child
I'm sure she misses seeing me smile instead of frown.
Kelly Weaver Oct 2018
i can't recall at what age i no longer feared death.
perhaps it was the day i saw a dead raccoon in the street,
puking its insides outward, like it ate something regrettable.
or maybe it was the day a suicide attempt brought a body to our shore
and though i was told to look away, i could not.
regardless of what brought me to this state, here i remain,
dismantling razors to get to their blades.
my skin has always been dry, like canvas,
so it only makes sense to use it as such,
a storyboard of misery and anguish covered my thighs
because anything was better than feeling numb.
i sometimes fantasize about what it must feel like to die
is it similar to the feeling of a sunshower on your skin,
or perhaps the wind dancing through your hair?
i've been dying to find out.
i'm aware that death is a fad these days
whether overdose or accident, slates are wiped clean
past mistakes erased.
if the promise of a swift and painless demise could be universal,
i'm sure more would feel the same as i.
what's scary is the pain, the unimaginable pain
that accompanies swallowing a fistful of pills or a swig of bleach
it's agony.
i've found myself closer and closer to reaching this point,
this point where i've no reason to be, and god,
it's so hard to backtrack.
in the same way that it's difficult to breathe easy,
the nearly impossible is found when i try not to mourn
what i haven't yet lost.
Kelly Weaver Oct 2018
the feeling of unwanted fingertips tends to wash over my skin in the same manner that the cold washed over yours
but heat transfers, or lack-there-of.
it was in this way that i became sick,
or maybe the smoke i've filled my lungs with had finally done me in.
i drank cough syrup either way.
i guess i was unaware at the time, but the smell of cherries was what did me in.
cherries, and i felt your hands once again
cherries, and my breathing nearly stopped all at once
cherries, and my hands began to tremble so violently that i dropped the bottle.
cherries, as i leaned over the toilet throwing up sticky sweet memories
cherries, as i drew further and further into myself and, subsequently, closer into your arms
cherries, as my eyes dried from the excessive tears and i could no longer manage any noise.
cherries, as your cold transferred into me and your hands clenched around my wrists
cherries, as the entire weight of your body was laid on top of mine
cherries, and i couldn't move, i couldn't scream, i couldn't see
cherries, as your voice echoed in my mind, preventing me any relief from this nightmare,
cherries.

no, not even the simplest of coughs could find relief under such strain.
because my cough syrup smelled like your red slushee vape juice,
i froze. and i couldn't pick myself up again
i couldn't front the storm, i couldn't slip you into my pocket
i couldn't put you on the back burner.
i couldn't erase you from my mind no matter how many times i tried i couldn't wipe you off of my skin no matter how hard i scrubbed
i couldn't close my eyes without hearing your voice telling me to stay still i cant stop smelling your ******* red slushee vape juice because the scent accompanies every panic attack and every breakdown.
and i sure as hell couldn't stop the blood from flowing once it had started.
the stress that made it hard to breathe had gotten to you, inside of me
and there was so much blood.
the doctor said it was normal for it to be about the same consistency as cherry cough syrup.

i can't drink it anymore.
you don't deserve to know what you did to me.
Kelly Weaver Oct 2018
i cried over fireflies in front of you on our first date
and you asked for my permission to hold me
because you knew that i was far too familiar
with unwelcome hands
and i have never felt more grateful
for something so rudimentary.
my ****** is walking free as this is written
he woke today feeling safe.
he woke today with his monstrous hands uncuffed flashing fangs in his toxic grin
the same that tore my flesh to ribbons.
I woke today to another ****** assault report
from a girl's seemingly worst nightmare,
(the third in under a month)
as well as a *** offender/supreme court appointee
plastered on every platform,
and, subsequently,
a ****** predator in the highest seat in the country.
monsters like them wake to comfort
while i wake to feeling as though i can't breathe
with the weight equivalent to his five-foot-nine stature bearing down onto my chest.
you hugged me once and i started crying because i couldn't move my arms
and you held me in bed for the following hours as my whole body trembled.
i didn't mind thanking you when you asked if you could hold me
but i wish i wasn't accustomed to doing so.
Kelly Weaver Oct 2018
today was the day she was supposed to **** herself.

---

she woke to singing birds in the same bed where she googled how many sleeping pills she had to take for it to be lethal.
what can be done of a girl breathing so heavy she throws up her tears and screams so quietly she couldn't even hear herself suffering until it was too late?
she's a lost cause.
an afterthought, the newspaper you used to line your dog's crate.
she's the candy wrapper that missed the trash can and flew with the wind, only to get caught in the storm drain with the next torrential downpour.
she's been singing alone for weeks now.
today was the day she was supposed to **** herself.
today was the day she was supposed to swallow as many pills as she could fit down her throat
and subsequently lay in bed until they burnt holes through her body
she was supposed to bleed through her sheets, alone and suffering silently.
she was supposed to drown in her tears and scream until water filled her lungs
she was to go silently into the day with only her body to remain.
she was supposed to **** herself today.
this was her chance
and she ******* blew it.

---

she couldn't make it through the letters.
she had them all addressed, scratched in her messy handwriting
which was only worsened by her shaking hands.
she couldn't write them
she didn't make it past him
she could feel tears welling in her already so very tired eyes as she thought of how to tell her best friend and first true love that she couldn't hold on anymore
that she couldn't stand singing alone anymore.
she couldn't do it.
she couldn't make it through the letters.

---

i had to wait over an hour to be connected to someone from the suicide prevention hotline.
thinking back on it now, it's quite a flawed system.
someone might not have had so long to wait.
i know now that i never could have actually done it
i never could have said goodbye to the morning sun or the falling leaves
i would've missed the sea far too much.
i would've missed the feeling of knowing the ocean is nearby without actually having it in my line of sight
that's one of the best feelings in the world, i promise you.
i would've missed your hand in mine, and i would've missed our long drives.
i wouldn't trade those for the world.

---

today was the day i was supposed to **** myself.
but i didn't,
and i won't,
so long as the tides keep changing,
and the earth keeps spinning,
and the birds keep chirping.
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