Hospitals exist
so you can pull up a chair
and watch people die.

I want to draw a picture on life's blackboard.
I want the colors to be brilliant, and vibrant, and full of love!

But as I pick up the chalk to draw...
it squeaks...
so loud...

it scares me.

Recently
I dont remember how i feel.
Happy or sad
Somehow the feeling is the same,
And i cant remember anymore.

I cant begin to explain because
Recently
You've been doing so well
And i couldnt bear to put that weight on you,
Too.

So this is all:
If you are trying to save me,
Dont hold your breath.

Today, i found myself outside of the
Drugstore.
Even the name has a dark connotation,
Like most things,
If you really think about it.
A store for drugs.
Now yet another thing that is made
For serious purposes
Is romanticized
By todays society.

I wasnt there to buy
Candy
Or makeup
Or toiletries
Like i probably shouldve been.
I was there for one thing,
And one thing only.

I headed into the stationary and
Household tools section,
Hoping to find the tiny bit of relief
Hanging off a shelf,
With my name carved into
The glinting metal,
Not unlike what i would be using it for.

But instead,
All i found were
Paperclips
And thumbtacks
And safety pins.
But i had hoped to escalade from that,
These innocent desk drawer tools.  

I didnt pick them up.
Did i want to?
Yes.
Do i have to?
Im not sure.
But i didnt.
And thats good enough for me.

I see my reflection in the mirror and I am                              I see my reflection in the mirror and I am
delighted. Long hair falls past my shoulders,                        disgusted. Long hair lies on my shoulders.
lying beautifully down my back. Eyes                                  dead from my need of change. Eyes covered
enhanced by liner, winged at the end, with                          with thick, black eyeliner, and tinted blue
contacts in, transforming my eyes to an                               from my hate of glasses. A single fake tooth
emerald green. Perfect, straight teeth giving                       whiter than the others, caused by a
me a smile so radiant. Thin collar bones                              childhood accident. Broad, non feminine
leading to my soft shoulders. A stomach                             shoulders, with collar bones protruding. A
thick enough to hide my ribs, yet full of                              stomach that sticks out in the wrong places.
muscle. Hips not too wide, yet fill out my                           Hips too flat, causing my jeans to hang
jeans while leaving enough room for                                   loosely. Legs longer than they should be,
imagination. Long, toned legs that go on for                      skinny and gangly. Feet the size of a mans,
days. Large feet, arched with long toes, and                       making it nearly impossible to walk straight.
cute polish. I have grown to love the girl                             I have grown to hate the girl staring back  
gazing back at me.                                                              ­  at me.

On my right thigh is the most honest piece of art I have ever created.
You may call it my masterpiece,
Because the finished product
was created from years and years of major and minor additions.
****** brushstrokes that mark each time the phrase “not good enough” rang too heavy in my ears. 
Sick, faded tallies of scars that tell the story of my life the way some parents tally the heights of their children on the kitchen wall. 
But instead of growth these lines mark failure and unlike a child impatient to mature,
Each line makes me sick to my stomach for the regression it represents.
Lines and lines of railroad track designs left in the indelible ink of imperfection.
An autobiography written in the hieroglyphics of my sorrow,
Wounds sealed like an ancient tomb but with a map of scars proving that once these grounds were holy,
Governing my life like a pharaoh with a birthright.
A visual representation of a feeling constantly fought and lost
An unavoidable reminder that yes, sometimes the scariest enemy I have to face is myself and here are the marks left behind when the demons of my past manage to claim a brief but ferocious victory over my self control.

Now, I am a perfectionist.

This means by the time I was old enough to understand my shortcomings I had figured out that no lesson stings in your memory quite as much as when you start using blood instead of ink
When you let heartache become your muse and self loathing your mistress, 
and suddenly you’re imprisoned by the adrenaline of freeing warm red paint from behind a soft **** canvas.
The first time I felt the release of a razor on my skin, I was gripped with an infatuation strong enough to break the programming of nature and turn my own body against itself as my skin became the victim of my own hands. 
Heartache after heartache I eased the pain,
Becoming michael angelo with a thin metal paintbrush and a sistine chapel that burned when the shower was too hot.
Hiding my latest work of art under long pants and excuses.
Finding love only in the dark because what if he sees my skin and realizes that some days I can’t even love myself?
On my right thigh is the most devastating piece of art I’ve ever created. 
You may call it my Achilles heel,
Because the finished product, which I shamefully admit,I do still edit occasionally,
was created from years and years of marveling over the beauty of the world but never learning how to see the beauty in a blank canvas.
Cherish your beautiful blank canvas.

Today is Wednesday.
And it wont be in exactly
45 minutes.
Lets make Wednesday last.

I'd like to butter you up, but
I'm on a diet and
You're vegan.

My wife, a psychiatrist, sleeps
through my reading and writing in bed,
the half-whispered lines,
manuscripts piled between us,

but in the deep part of night
when her beeper sounds
she bolts awake to return the page
of a patient afraid he'll **** himself.

She sits in her robe in the kitchen,
listening to the anguished voice
on the phone. She becomes
the vessel that contains his fear,

someone he can trust to tell
things I would tell to a poem.