Tell the people that I love

that I'm sorry.

Sorry that the wounds on my skin will not be healing

sorry that my eyes will never be opening

sorry that the mess I leave behind requires a cleanup you can't solicit from me

sorry that I won't apologize anymore.

It feels like every time I pick up a pen to write

All that comes out in the light of day is sorries.

Maybe I should write poems in the dark

I wish I preferred the dark

but in reality all the dark means is another missed opportunity

at telling someone I love them.

I don't even know who I'd say it to

but maybe myself

if I ever got over the fear of rejection I will imminently face

staring at the mirror

whispering the words until love turns to hate

and I **** in my stomach and wipe off my tears

and I give into the headache that has never left my mind.

Tell the people I love that I was sick,

and I was angry,

but I'm done with all that because the minute my boxcutter met flesh the anger and the sick gave way to scars

- I am a master at making scars -

and ebbed at the shore of my life,

my life is the sea

AND I AM DROWNING.

Eons ago when I would spend time with friends I felt empowered and happy

but now when I do I realize that I am no longer new or shiny or even worthwhile

and my friend's crossover into being just an acquaintance kills me every time

even though I am waiting in line

to end the tortuous tiptoeing myself.

Tell the people I love

that I am not sorry,

just at rest,

sitting beneath the dark shade that death provides

steadily freezing to death in a bath tub full of ice because

ANYTHING is better than you making me feel like garbage again.

Tell the people I love

that screaming at my grave

would be better than bringing flowers

because at least I could have something real from you.

Tell the people I love

that love is not a race;

you don't need to be first to be winning.

Tell the people I love

that I know they love each other

too much to spare any love for me

and that's okay.

Tell the people I love I won't get in their way.

Tell the people I love I won't apologize

for this.

He walks with knowledge and runs nowhere.

He makes plans and he keeps them.

He smiles when he sees her and only then.

He reluctantly allowed her to take his hand and lead him to places of wonder.

He takes vacations to exotic places but always returns.

He holds her hand like he holds a gun.

He has work-worn fingers.

He is tired of pulling a trigger, but it's all he knows.

He sees ghosts in the corners of his eyes, but never quite catches them.

He recalls the blood and sea salt on his hands.

He remembers hundreds of last words and will hear hundreds more.

He sees countless horrors but has learned to sleep without dreams.

He drinks because it's easy.

He has a past that you will never know.

He is more than tired bones and trigger fingers.

He walks with knowledge and runs nowhere.

He steps past death on a daily basis, but it doesn't touch him.

It must know the one thing he doesn't.

My love

is as beautiful as I knew she would be

silver, rough, sharp in only some places,

and she takes a bite from me every time I cry.

She understands my woes,

my fears,

and wants me always to stay.

She bites a little deeper, sometimes,

after I've been away.

Why are you lost, so far in the fields,

populated by sadness, going without meals?

Why do you refuse the outstretched hands with thin fingers,

but take the hands in which blades are clutched?

You could likely get better, if you tried,

but you don't.

Why do you want to see yourself bleed

onto the porcelain ground,

turning the white to red?

Why do you let your hands shake

and whither with weakness,

when you can attain a cure?

All of your supplies are in your quivering hands,

why won't you stop dropping them?

I know that you love me. That you tried so hard to make me not know, but I do. I thought this place would help you understand that I loved you, too. I was so wrong. I'm so sorry.

You could have had anybody else, but you hadn't wanted anybody else, and I should have helped you more. I didn't.

Once, you told HER and I that you loved us. Said it all the time, though you started sounding less and less sure after a while.

I guess I wanted you to have something that wouldn't have to remind you of me. Something that could belong only to you and the people you chose to invite into it. I wonder if you intended for this attacker to be let in.

Maybe when I saw the letter of my name scribbled along every rock and welded into every building, every shine, you thought you could never live with the knowledge not that we would never be together, but HER and I would be together without you. Maybe you thought that.

No, here, you let me whisper your fears at you in the dark without saying anything. You allowed me to feel at home in this place with you by my side not as a lover but as a good friend who had a deep understanding of all of this. But how could you continue to love me like this? When I am so utterly lost among my thoughts and my long drives and my harsh words?

A glimpse into your eyes, an echo of what you used to be before you met me. Simple, elegant, happy. Now, knowing me and HER and wanting us to be happy even if it means without you has caused you to wither into the walls alone.

There were remnants of us, old photographs and carvings made by my own car keys, but you disappeared the moment I whispered into the dark that I kind of liked HER. It hadn't even been real at that moment, just a small inclination given to HER because of how much we both cared about HER without the messy premise of love. Promise of love. Whatever you want to call it. But I grew to love HER, not you, and though I'm not sorry for that I am sorry that you felt the need to distance yourself the moment we confessed to one another.

Through it all, I had hoped you would stay. Really.

The vastness of this world, that was supposed to be yours but turned into mine. I feel like this is less of a planet now and more of a burial site.

Nothing will ever be the same without you. The cold of this winter was unbearable, but the cold without you to shine sun on the world is vast and unthinkable, undreamable. HER and I lay in bed often, awake, and quietly acquiesce to missing you. It is almost pathetic. We almost need you to keep ourself happy. Perhaps we are simply ticking time bombs without you to defuse us.

I tried to make it clear to you, that even with HER and I together you were still YOU; instead, YOU became you, small and distant and dejected, and while part of me was disgusted by your lack of persistence another part of me was mournful to the fiery nature that I fear I killed.

I thought that YOU and HER and I would all live happily ever after somewhere, away from the hustle and bustle of our normal lives where we could swing on children's swings forever and discuss everything and nothing. But you are no longer YOU. For that, I am sorry.

Yes, I am expressive.

When I am angry or sad or happy or bad you will know and hear about it.

But you don't know the half of my feelings.

My expressivity extends beyond what you see as a person and turns into something toxic coursing through my veins,

hidden and yet expressive in its own twisted way.

It longs to **** me,

to wrap its black hands around my throat and squeeze

but I grab it with both bloodied hands and hold it away

for another day or so.

Yes, I am expressive.

I vocalize lots and secretize little

But more is secretized than you think.

My fury rushes through me in hot waves of cut hands and bruised legs

my sadness shifts restless through tears shed by myself as well as with you

my happiness shines fleetingly though my eyes and my fingers that hold the pen

but most important:

my contention with the world comes in brief flickers of silver and pink,

as small as single pieces of confetti

scattered on the forest floor

of my head

what a beautiful life.

If I focus

really hard

if I tilt my head just right

and narrow my eyes just so

I can almost make the world disappear.

If I don't blink for a very long time

I can only see rough outlines-

no noise

-and I like that.

If I focus

really hard

if I close myself off

And turn my pride down just so

I can almost make the world disappear.

If I don't breathe for a very long time

I can only see white darkness-

no pressure from others

-and I like that.

If I focus

really hard

I can almost make myself die.