He was afraid that if she closed her eyes they would never open again
She was always tired these days, her smile stunted, the crinkling in her eyes when she laughed, foreshadowed by the tears,
Like rain droplets underneath which they danced at 3 pm in the Missouri crossings,
And after the luminous laughs shared and warmth shared between their lips came her sickness, closer than ever, threatening to force them apart
Fever always forced her way inside her head, and cough rented her lungs paying the rent in the form of monthly hospital trips
He always held her hand, kissing the back of her palm, clutching it harder than an addicts grip on white powder,
They diagnosed her with tuberculosis, her lungs, breathed out melodies of Coldplay and Laura marling for him when the night felt too long,
                              Now they breathed in his pain, his fear of losing her to darkness.
Her sunken pale face, wishing on anything and everything that proves to be lucky, an eyelash, sight of a black car when driving underneath train on a bridge,
Crossing fingers to survive through this nightmare that has sketched its outline,
                                                        ­                                          And filled its grey shades in their lives.
He cocoons his body around her in the white bed, her fragile body, connected with an I-V, they could have been a beautiful butterfly, but destiny stunted their growth
She just wants to close her eyes to wish, for the last time, to be able to see his face every day for the rest of the eternity,
                       But he is afraid that if she closes her eyes, she might never open them again.

The old world
died

with the rise
of

McDonalds.

I made it through another day
in my freezing room
on scraps and pieces left behind.

The utter reality of my heartbeat
is the only thing that assures me
I'm actually a part of this world.

You ask me what my monster is,
well silly you,
my monster is myself.

And here I am
left wandering in my own world
full of pain and nostalgia.

What is the definition
of a person
doing it right,
Is it easy to know
or easy to sight.

Do they understand simply
that to be right
is your own game,
you are the king
there is no one to blame.

Do they think in a way
thats peaceful towards all,
or struggle still
and hit their own walls.

Do they fight like me
with these demons raging,
holding my principles
blaming and caging.

Assumptions of innocence,
naïve they say,
but really it's just the same battle
in my mind everyday.

Who do you want to be
where is your truth,
is there a reason you hold back
am I stuck in my youth.

I see and I know
I understand and I feel
but what's right and wrong
what truth is real?

Lustful hands
bent knees and toes,
pushing and grinding
to places I don't know.

The thoughts say stop
but why? I can't explain,
the force to be in the right
holding me at a stalemate game.

Touching and kissing
heat rising,
I'm smiling.
The battle quieted
by tongues
and their styling.

Exploring,
feeling
open but restrained,
maybe when it's right
my heart wont be tamed.

i look at the burn peeling on my arm and i think about all the **** that got me here
from the red asterisk i drew with a knife three years ago
in the butter yellow room of my older sister's house
when we were homeless
to the childhood summer i spent as a lake baby
in my grandmother's car

i finger the scores of cuts on my arms
my thighs
old, most of them
some too deep to fade
each scar has a face
most of them are
mommy's

i like to remember her from old photographs
sun-bleached hair down to her unblemished thighs
the most inexplicable shine in her face

i think of how different those photographs would be
if she knew then that her daughter hurt her body
every time she thought of her mother

i think the smile would be different

but i look at her now
grayed,
aging...
still smiling.
as if she didn't know
that she made me a tiger
gave me these stripes
as if she didn't know
that it is her fault i am a killer

i look at the burn peeling on my arm
and for once this self harm isn't pretty to me
it is very, very ugly
a big, blistering red mark
marring my freckles
i wonder when it will fade
or if it will at all
i wish i could burn more than
just this arm
of mine.

knuckles rubbed raw by
teeth so sharp and blunt
a tongue rough and silent

violent retching
self-harm for a throat
already held by a noose

she promises
just

one more cookie
one last bite
one last calorie
one last breath
one

the toilet bowl is her best friend
and she hugs it close
when no one can hear