tell me three things.
•How are you doing? I miss you and I want you to do okay.
•Why don't you believe that I love you? Why don't you believe we all love you? We all love.
•Why won't you believe me when I say that you make me happy and that I've been where you have.

Brandon, I want you to be okay. I care about you.

my stomach in the bathtub
folded over and wrinkling
like the skeleton of my grandmother

hands that look too much like my father’s
blanketing my stomach like those of a cruel mother

on the best days the window next to the bathtub
is uncovered and I can see out but nobody can see in

on the best days I look down at a body
that is nothing but a pile of snow leftover
a week after the storm has past
somebody has forgotten to shovel me whole

there is a damp hole in my stomach and I am
staring at it unsure if I want it to melt
wondering who might fit shoveled inside

The winter speaks to me through its underlying bone chill
The cold beneath my skin feels a bit less lonely
Darkness, so comfortable and sweet
It dances through my nerves
The summer is enticing but it tries to melt my unlit soul
There's nothing like the balance between
Tangled, frozen veins
And dying branches
Littering their last tokens of hope
Along the un-accepting ground

And you're a tremor through the
nerves of my body
And you're an echo in the grooves of
my brain
And every color turns grey under
moonlight
And every breath I take is laced with
the pain
They attack me when I close my eyes
Attach their membranes to the fuses
in my ribs
I host the terrors in my heart like a
lavish hotel,
But they rip me apart all the same

Time is a cool liquid that flows and resonates through my being
And as I sit here slaving away day by day on man made devices based on prehistoric theories, I feel the angels of death ripping my time out from underneath my feet.
I maybe young but I continue to fret about the bullets that ring in my head and the psychotics that numb my brain into pliable putty.
They try to mold me to fit the social standard and I continue to fight back with the will of a bull and the guilt of a sinner.
I can not continue to castrate my inner self even though it is that of the flames of hell which will never accept me.
I can not continue to wish for the pure white of the wings angels and the dazzling halos of the pure, neither, because I am stuck in my impending cycle of depression and gloom.
Miss Mary Jane only makes me loopy and ***** me up immensely while the nicotine never sedates the destructive curiosity.
I am a slave to my mind and to the pain that bleeds from the bruises and cuts.
I am a slave to the human heart which controls every reenactment of the mistakes my mother bled to hide me from
And for this I cry and plead the words
"I'm sorry!"
But this is never enough.
I will never be enough.
For I am a hopeless little teenage freak that will never learn.
And for this I am truly sorry.