where do you think he is right now?
somewhere across the sky
writing love letters to a girl
who doesn't have a tint of green in her eyes
(he always said that was my most beautiful feature)
where do you think he is right now?
somewhere between the seas
sketching her undressed body
one free of bruised thighs
(he loved the purple against the white of my skin)
where do you think he is right now?
somewhere where the clouds run wild
watching the sunset, holding her hand
her nails aren't short and manicured
(he loved how mine were always neat)
where do you think he is?
somewhere where the memory of me floats
lying next to a girl with a birthmark on her neck
*(but he was still in love with the girl with a birthmark next to her mouth)

Little suicide notes were written between the colors and brush strokes in the irises of her eyes.  Some short, some long, some almost never ending, and some simply only said goodbye.  Some warm and well crafted with just a dash of despair.  Others cold and cruel crammed with complaints and self loathing.  Some written by her own hand, others memorized from books and films and authors unknown.  Beautiful maladies of the outrageous fashion of lifeless death after death.  She too often wondered is it really suicide when someone is already dead inside?

Even with the glazed over dreams of death that swam in the deep black of her pupils, her smile still had an innocent charm.  A perfect balance of teeth and lips and soft pink flesh.  There was an eager patience in the tremble and quiver waiting in the promise of her kiss.  It wasn't of wanting or longing but the simple passion of knowing each  moment of pressing and locking and pressure brought her closer to her final breath.  She wasn't interested in the luxury of suicide, its flashy pearl whites or final big bang... she wanted to know the intimacy of the unknown, the brief warm flush of the infinite end of the love and despair of life.  To discover the kindness or cruelty of whats next.  Too often she pondered why does she see much more beauty in death than in life or love.

She smiled, some days... and it was a warm and inviting smile, beautiful in its own graceful way.  Thats how I remember it.  All I can see now, shining up through the dirt and her grave, is one last note painted in her dead eyes.

I miss your face
The way your lips curl in when you smile
And your eyes light up when you speak
Each word you utter falls gently on my skin
Lightly caressing me, touching me
Leaving me.
I miss your voice
I've called your mobile phone
So many times, just to hear it once more
Your voicemail saying "please call back"
And I do, over and over, waiting patiently for you
But there's still no answer.
I miss your love
You embraced me on the bad days
And fought away memories of my mistakes
Loved me through the times I destroyed myself
You saved me from jumping in front of a train
And let me cry in your arms.
I miss your presence
They say ghosts never leave you
If they have unfinished business
But our love isn't over, so where are you hiding
Between the time of death and the goodbyes I said
I still remember your lips replying, "I love you".
I'm sitting at your grave
Missing every inch of you,
Even the parts of you that you left in me
Have gone missing and I feel like an Incompleted jigsaw
I have found it so hard to keep living,
My heart stopped beating the moment yours did
So why am I still living in a world without you
I miss every part of you, so **** much.

I cut myself again tonight
And my skin parted like the Red Sea
I am Moses.
I cut open my inside thigh
Hiding my disease, so no one could see,
Looks can be deceiving.

I covered my wounds with plasters;
Envying the way plasters hid pain,
Much Better than I did.
I took care of my wounds
Incase of infection, so I would never have to explain
Why my thighs cracked like volcanoes.

I drew thick safety lines
Thick enough to block out feelings
This is apathy.
I became reborn every morning
After baptising in my holy tears
God will receive me.

I had no faith to walk over the waters
Terrified that the waters would drown me
I am Peter.
I keep self sacrificing, hanging myself on the cross
For my sins that I can't stop committing
I am Jesus,
Or is this blasphemy?

When these guns salute
they’ll need roses
when the metal pops,
stemmed from the truth until the last petal falls off,
but theres no romance in the commotion of the outspoken,
left broken torso twisted into specific yoga poses,
body’s go missing of the scene like a mystery, it’s hocus pocus,
This is a cold one (cauldron) it’ll get mixed until the remix surfaces,
on track here to defeat your purpose,
crush the trachea so you can’t breathe,
they got no Eyedea (idea)
Everyday, this is one of the seven deadliest, akin to a swarm of locusts,
they lose focus in the colloquial informality of the death chosen,
expose fossils fools (fuels) make them leave earth like a Diplodocus,
awoken from a deep sleep with deep heat to the exposed wounds,
so many bodies left in old tombs we gonna be needing some more room soon.