dear suicidal tendencies,
it’s three in the morning, you’ve woken me up
i sit on my bed with nothing but this pen and coffee cup
you’re at the front of mind, putting pressure on my forehead
i want to sleep it off, but you want me dead

dear suicidal tendencies,
it’s four in the morning and i have tried to fall into a slumber
but every time i close my eyes you appear and just make it harder

dear suicidal tendencies,
it’s five in the morning, i am feeling quite harmful to my wellbeing
you’ve pushed yourself through the surface of my skin and I can’t help what i’m seeing
you’re so dark, so scary; your fingers are course as you run them along the surface of my wrist
and you tell me words, saying my death will be forgotten and unappreciated just like mist

dear suicidal tendencies,
it’s six in the morning and I’m debating a future i cannot see
i’m letting you win, you’re words have made me believe i’ll be free

I am a soul, woven into the floorboards of a house that once carried people, but now carries dust. I lay with secrets and lies buried deep below the footprints left behind.
I have little hope that time will be regained and if I have to —with remorse and regret— I will piece the tiny fragments of hostility back together until my skin rubs raw and my fingers bleed—
as it was I who so selfishly drove the life away.

Like a screen, so horribly attached to the wall, a life is played from start to finish, and I wonder—ponder of prospects;
was I crazy? —or— could I still be?
The dust bunnies, hidden below splinted furniture, the spiders, in their silken webs, and other souls that lay at rest seem to laugh at the screen.
Are they laughing at me? —or— could they be seeing something different, like their own, drab lives?

Silence consumes me suddenly and I feel weightless—
like an octopus floating dreamily and subtly through the depths of the sea
There is no laughter —no screen can be seen anymore hanging on the wall that has holes though it and no life is playing before my tired eyes.
Like an apocalypse, the outside is dark and grim, and it is hot and sticky —like the days in summer where it rains.
Like an apocalypse, I hear no noise, I see no movement and I smell nothing.
But coming from a soul, so rapidly left behind, who’d expect anything more?

I made you a mix-tape and called it leaves,
because your hair reminds me of autumn when they fall from the trees

I made you a mix-tape and called it snow,
because your pupils remind me of ice and where it grows

I made you a mix-tape and called it warm
because your smile reminds me of the sun and it’s yours to adorn

I made you a mix-tape and called it new
Because you remind me of the flowers that bloom.

The first snowflake of winter fell onto her russet locks,
settled with a place to rest
but she reached her hands up in a fumble
and pulled them from the tangled mess
they melted in her palm,
and became little puddles of  n o s t a l g i a