I heard the whisper.

I heard the voices in my head, spinning circles, clasping hands,

Singing ring around the rosy until I fell down on the cold floor once again
In a palette of red paint.

The artist wasn’t quite finished yet with this masterpiece.

But I listen as his voice rises higher and higher with excitement and his words start to beat their tiny wings, and he cries

This represents the healing that we can no longer reach on our own.

This represents the pills we have to be given so we can learn to quit reaching for them when times get too tough.

This represents the itchy white hospital gowns hiding her fragile body so she can learn to be comfortable in her skin.

This represents hope so high that I can’t see it anymore.

And he breaks the legs of his canvas in a flurry of hatred for the beauty he created,

Because it will never be felt by the critics who rate this pain on a scale from 1 to 10.

And all you’ve been fighting for doesn’t mean a thing

When she peers on tiptoes into the mirror and sees

Fingertips quick to pull triggers.

And rose-petal bones start to wither.

And her lower lip tries not to quiver

When the tears get too heavy.

But she lets them fall like paint off a brush and they crash on the tiles.

She lets the floor crack under her feet while praying to god to send her to hell

Just so she can feel the flames.
So she can feel the smoke charring her lungs,
And she rots from the inside out.

He watches, the paintbrush dancing in his hand like her war torn desert palms and
They pull their triggers.

She paints the wall with her sadness and he frames it to sell
To the critics who carry the scales that killed her.

I hate the boys that look at you on the street and believe you are wonderful for one moment
When I am thinking of you always
And drive for hours to see your face.
I hate the things they say to you
About your hair
Your clothes
Your body
When they think that they deserve it,
That you owe them something,
And I can't even form one word to tell you when you look beautiful.
I can't be meant for you.
I can't be who you need
But can I be wrong if I don't flinch when you reach for me?

Every idea you've had on hallucinogens is fake.
It was dark around the tiny building lights and the car was shaking, buzzing,
I drank too much caffeine this morning and my hands are still unsteady. I sit on them when I'm nervous and there are lines pressed in my knuckles.
The girl behind the wheel is talking endlessly about dropping acid in her dorm room and her voice is melting into the air conditioning, a flutter of sound.
I'm missing you.
I'm missing girls with black, wild hair and boys with black, empty eyes.
I'm missing the blue tee-shirt he wore under a gray sweater when all I could focus on was how soft the fabric was on my back.
I did it so I couldn't feel the ache.
I'm missing the bulky, rough hands on my collar bones when I couldn't tell if you were thinking about how thin I had become or how easy I would be to hush. My throat was too close to your fingers.
These words make no sense to the world around me and no one knows the people I am painting in this poem
And it's better that way, because in this they stay silent.
And all of a sudden, I am missing everyone,
And I am missing from everything.
Every idea you had with smoke in your lungs has been said before,
And every idea you've had with a pill in your cheek is a dream.
All of a sudden, I miss everyone.