i was taught
to always hand scissors with the blade
inside my clutch
facing myself
and the handle facing out
so I never hurt
anyone else
Since a young age
I was always taught
that it was better
to hurt myself
than anyone else.

Long before the summer came.
I figured out your name.
Little did I know of you.
I should be hiding from you.
When we kiss is a storm we create.
By the end it's too late.
Then we watched it all fall.
Without thinking to think tall.
This happens to us all.
Who will survive this ghastly burn?
Eventually the tables turn.
You will find your reason for
the future and forevermore.

It seems like just yesterday we
were twisting our bodies beneath
the symphony of the moonlight,
singing songs of everlasting
love with no sight of ending.
From the beginning I knew
there would be some halt
of companionship as a result
of a stagnant feeling that I was enough
for how perfect you are.
Theres nothing left of my pride
only the need to subside
from every burden i cause.
Every day I woke up and
rolled over to you
laying there with serenity  
thoughts collapses to emotion
knowing you thought you
were losing me, when
the state of my health
screamed out to me
assuring me I was losing myself.
So an awaited day finally came
where I let you go only to know
that you couldn’t live without me.
Seeing your distress left me
more of a mess than what I was before,
the only hope left within was the feeling
that you’d finally cope with me leaving
and find another soul that wouldn’t
constantly leave a hole
in your heart every time my insecurities
would start.
Mistake after mistake fuelled by
instances I knew i couldn’t take.
As you left after I did,
I knew I couldn’t rid
myself from the way I felt
but the reassurance that
you’d be looked at one day
by eyes that held no despise for
their self.
I now bask in the toxins
in order to mediate my conscience
to be sane,
accompanied by pills the rip the morals
from my brain.
Cigarette's packs are emptying faster than
the bottle, pills to make me happy I swallow
and pills that numb, pull me closer to the edge
as I use my thumb to pop the lid, to push my
consumption of poison to dredge every sense of life
from this already lifeless body.
Step out of your once loved mindset towards
my dredged excuse for a being
and open your expectations to those that
exceed what you once held for me,
there’s a room full of people right for you;
quit pounding on the door,
I’m not on the other side.

her Eyes?

her Eyes,
are like staring
into brand new millenniums
where not one
infinity is impossible
and she does this,
with just a simple flicker
of every blink she takes
opening up,
to an array of force fields,
and battles long lost
to one
I hope one day
to cross.

Momento Mori encourages you to paint your own story
Listening to that broken record mind is painful and boring.
Silence the chatter and climb the chakra ladder to yourself for real glory.

"Remember that you have to die" was planted with Latin roots.
If only you could let go of your leaves, you wouldn't torment yourself with monotonous abuse.
It seems we were trained to forget how to breathe.
Switchboard recalibrated to go on autopilot against the breeze.
Instead of asking why, we look to the neon lights for relief.  
Out of single file one man screamed with grief, " End the misery pretty please!  The doctor says I gotta up the dosage unless I wanna be deceased. Oh master, do I not give you what you claim you need?  I have kids to feed with no more means to deplete.  You can take my seat, I'll work on my feet forever... **** you for shaping my life - No more, my ties to you I sever.  Remember that you are going to die.  Yes, even you, the self-proclaimed 'most high'.  Go hide when you cry, in that same pit of hell where you forge all your lies.  Get ready to fry, unless you face yourself long enough to stop opposing the divine."

Momento Mori, my life I stopped forcing.  Spine aligned, no longer contorting.  Inhale as I stretch at my own leisure while I jot down my own story.  The words come, only in the moment.  I read the lines at the time you do,  with our collective pages eternally unfolding.

i was a daughter once, i know,
not so long ago, when i
had a mother
with all the answers
and skin that never bruised.

we were close; her
branches around mine,
we’d unravel stories,
in winter’s light, and lay,
in those old mornings
where i felt safe
but branches break.

i was a sister too, a child,
with siblings sleeping, side
by side, in a rose-wine
sea, me – so small, we –
looked-after,
daughters lost and losing
something, someone, sooner
than we thought.

these days, that girl
is gone: sometimes i find
the ghost of her in
photo albums, teddy
bears, bob dylan songs.

i’ve yet to ask my sisters
if they’ve seen her.