The day I buried
your memories,
you sent me a postcard
with your love written
in blood. And despite
the pain you've brought to me,
my hands couldn't fathom
how to drop this last piece of you
into the grave.

You left no return address.
No way for me to slap
you with the stinging
knowledge of how thoughtless
I considered you to be.
So instead I filled the
back of a Polaroid
with everything I never said,
and placed it in the postman's hand.

I told him that if
he ever saw the person
from the picture, and
placed the Polaroid in
his hand, that I would
pay him in stories about
a broken life.

Or if he preferred,
fifty one dollar bills.

Looking back, we never saw this coming.

Our roller blades had a relationship
with the warm summer ground on Friday
nights when our parents would gather
over margaritas and wine; an escape hatch from
the 9 to 5 work week. We killed fireflies the
way we chew on hearts of the ones we love,
rubbing their luminescent bulbs on
the toes of our shoes so that our steps
might light up the night for just a little
bit longer and maybe, just maybe,
we could hold off on growing up.

Looking back, we all  wish we could have stayed.

But bare foot soccer on concrete turned into
binge drinking, and alcohol poisoning
and neighborhood gatherings stopped being
kind.  We swapped Air Heads and Pokemon
cards for flavored condoms and a drivers
license, only to find that everything
we threw away was worth so much more
than the high school bullies, and boys with roofies,
and the girls with tears running down into
their tissue stuffed chests.  We gave
up our golden years, and to make up for it
we stuff Prozac down our throats with a
desperate belief that childhood happiness
can be found in an orange pharmacy bottle.
Hoping, I think, that someone will come along
and tell us we've done everything right,
and would we, for our reward, like our innocence returned.

Looking back, I guess we just couldn't comprehend.

We never knew that every day the pages turned
and we were slowly losing our love of fun dip
and cheap private-school valentines.  We were
starting to forget the pride that came with
the title of King in foursquare,  or the way
it felt to let go and jump from the highest point
of the swing.   Instead we staked out cafeteria
seats and tried to figure out why having
blonde highlights, or contacts instead of glasses
suddenly made you better than everyone else.

Looking back, it all seems so sweet.
Then again, they say hindsight is 20/20.

Yesterday I sat on your porch,
and drew pink chalk hearts around
your doormat.  You asked me if I
wanted sweet tea and I said yes,
though all I really wanted was your
lips against my ear.  Whispering how
much you missed the smell of
my perfume on your pillow.

And sometimes I take snapshot of my
face when I cry. I mail them to you
in a grey envelope and on the back of every
one I write down confessions about
what animals I'd run over in the
road that day, and how they all made
the same loud thump under my wheels,
no matter how hard I pushed on the gas
pedal, or how much I turned up the stereo.

Occasionally you bring the pictures
back to me, telling me everything you
know about radio waves, road ****, and how
they relate to the tread on my tires.  You tell
me things I won't ever need to know, but
will never be able to forget no matter
how many times I try to burn the memories
of you from my frontal lobe.

I guess that's another reason why I love you.
Because no one's ever told me how
they make the colors in my favorite
fourth of July fireworks.

The first time I skipped a meal, I spent the night with a gnawing pain in the pit of my stomach.
The first time I cut myself, I threw up at the sight of my own blood.
The first time I made myself sick, I cried.

The first time is always the hardest, but it only gets easier after that.

Years down the road now,
I can see the beauty in what I've done.
The breath-taking wonder found in decay.

Tonight I sit on the pavement
outside my apartment.
My fingers curl around the
rusted chain-link fence.
Sharp edges of broken wire
left cuts not nearly deep enough
on my arms when I squeezed
through the hole next to me.

I don't live anymore than the metal at my back.
Just like the fence I am merely existing.

Months from now,
my kidneys will run
the risk of failing.

Already my teeth are
stained and eroded from
stomach acid.

My bones knock against
one another from shivering,
and the pavement underneatth
me chews at my tailbone.

When someone asks for a picture of me,
I give them the grainy photograph of the hole in the fence.
Just like it I am rusting. Breaking down piece by piece.

There is beauty in dying. In the natural course of slow decay.

When doctors ask me
why I did this to myself,
I will show them the scars
on my stomach.
I'll show them my
barren womb and
protruding rib bones.

I'll tell them that in trying to be perfect, I found what we're all really looking for.

I discovered that we're
born to die, and that
the beauty of life is
our slow descent into
the darkness of death.

She was, I guess, contagious.

      An epidemic to people's hearts.
      It seemed her face was everywhere,
      just as scattered as her thoughts.

She was addicted to the thrill of it.
Watching people fall.

      She would fill her syringe with their longing
      and send the needle between her toes.

It was clear she was a ******
and she knew her veins would surely burst.

      How much can you take from someone else,
      before you realize you lost your self worth?