Is it a sin to hate my body when it no longer fits?
When I've outgrown the shell of who I was
Will I be shamed for trying on a new layer of skin like a discount store coat?
I ask because people shift their eyes up and down
Because people whisper in tones they think you don't understand
Because for some reason not loving yourself means you want to slice away all of your parts
It is a death sentence to want to rearrange yourself
But i need change
I just want to feel beautiful
You judge without thought
If I hate my body then all other parts must be corroded too
You're wrong
I love my mind and the intricate circles it traces around the earth
I've fallen head over heels for my heart because it gave me the courage to let others in
I blush just imagining what unbridled masterpieces I could create with my imagination
I want to hold hand with the colour of my eyes and forgot what any other shade looks like
I love myself enough to know that I don't fit this body anymore
And it is not a sin to stop pretending that my coat still hugs me perfectly

The day
you make a decision
that convinces
every cell in your body
is the day darling
you defy gravity
and walk
on clouds of
content

Three teens sit in a lightless room.
The **** smoke mixes with the incense,
And births a pungent smell.
The television flashes in the dark.
They stare blankly into its screen, afraid to think.
No exchange of words, after all what would they say?
"Hey buddy! How many times have you wanted to end it this week?!"
Or maybe, "Hi Pal! Could you spare a Xanax?"
These are the suicide kids; life means nothing to them.
They wander emotionlessly through school hallways
And work minimum wage jobs with displeasure.
They don't smoke for fun, they smoke to numb.
The prospect of death is comforting to them.
Maybe then they could be alone without demons running rampant.
So they sit amongst each other in lifeless rooms.
With lifeless people, in lifeless towns.
To them, Suicide is like a passing wind.
Not even a seconds thought for their rotting peers,
They understand. They know this life is heavy.,
And sometimes one just can't take the weight. So they make it end.
With pills and bullets. With Ropes and razors. They make it end.
Soon they'll have to pick a career and start a "life."
They chuckle sorrowfully at this prospect,
What life will find them here in this shattered country?
The heat is rising and they KNOW it.
The water is drying and they KNOW it.
The trees are dying and they KNOW it.
They're slaves. And they KNOW it.
It is this knowing that brings them their pain
And brings along thoughts of nooses and slashed wrists.

One of them turns to the other and says "Yo pass me the ****, man."
He slides the glass across the table in front of them.
Careful not to make eye contact,
That might spark conversation.
The incense smoke twirls in the air.
The TV flickers, and day turns to night.
The youngest of the three teens says farewell and walks home glumly,
A noose awaits him.

Sometimes, more often than not,
a poem slides beside me,
walks into the room,
places a hand on my shoulder,
and whispers its way to a page.
It travels to rooms in my heart,
built by those I love,
who dwell there all alone until..
..until its time to close and lock the door,
and slowly walk the stairs,
to somewhere else to cry.
A poem slides beside me,
and writes itself,
hand over hand it pours to the page,
and blurs my vision to right here,
right now,
and leads me where it does.
A song too sad to be sung
to another,
a song to be sung alone on a page,
a page of another’s devising.
Like the lives that are passing,
the pages turn,
added to another story,
on pages written long before.
A poem sits beside me,
and tells me a story
and places its hand in mine,
and sings its story softly,
the saddest song I know.
To those who I love,
To those who've left me,
To those who care.

On quiet nights the children come,
                                          From distant places in my past,
                                          And quietly their footsteps fall
                                          They’ve run so far and fast.

                                          I hear them as they play and laugh
                                          And peer around the trees,
                                          I turn to see them, but they’re gone,
                                          a soft and gentle breeze.                                    
      
                                          Do they run among the clouds,
                                          or here on dampened ground?
                                          I cannot tell, I cannot see,
                                          They’re nowhere to be found.

                                           I worry that they may be cold,            
                                           Does someone tuck them in?
                                           Soft blankets do they cover with,
                                           to fend off cool night winds?

                                           For now I listen in the dark,
                                           And revel in their play.
                                           And wonder where they’re going to,
                                           When night turns into day.

                                           So now I wait ‘til daylight ends,
                                           The sun to set, the moon to rise,
                                           And hope the children never see,
                                           the tears well in my eyes.

                                           Nights are when they get to play
                                           To be what they should be.
                                           To run, to dance, to jump and sing
                                           all this because of me.

                                          Some day I hope to hold their hands,
                                          and walk with them awhile.
                                          And not just hear them as they play,
                                          but watch and see them smile.

                                          And then I’ll kneel before them both,
                                          And look them in the eye,
                                          And ask them if they can forgive,
                                          it was me that made them die.

They come in the night,
running down moonbeams,
and I hear them,
laughing,
shadows playing hide and seek
or tag…
maybe jumping rope…
I don’t know.
I run to the window,
I try to see,
But they’re gone again,
around the corner, behind a bush
out of sight from me.
I leave my warm bed,
and open my door to the cold, night wind
but it carries them away,
and now they cry, as do I.
Each night they come,
each night I seek them out,
each night since they hide,
from me, and why not?
I took them to this place,
the playground of the ******,
cold and dark and alone
with no loving hand to tuck them in,
or the warmth of their mother’s arms.
I was God that day, to them.
Old testament , raining fire
taking the first born child…
and the second as well..
and brought Hell to the Earth
on one sunny afternoon.
Again, I hear them
just out of sight,
running, laughing without joy,
pointing at me,
and asking “Why?”
I have no answer to that,
I only know the “Who”,
But they know that.
At the end for me,
I hope to see them again,
this time to hold them close,
and explain the sins of men,
and tuck them into bed, to sleep.

Beware! My dear shepherds,
I think you've failed to see.
There are wolves among your flock!
And one of them is me.
Are you not aware?
That in a pack we hunt?
Or that sometimes there are better things,
To have as sheep for lunch?
We are patient and unkind,
We creep slowly through the dark,
You're so secure within your power,
I think it's made you blind.
We'll start with your dogs,
And then move on to you,
And then you'll know that these were facts,
You'd wished you would've knew.