Your soft lips met with mine,
you and I lost and entwined,
you trace my outline with your fingers
and your sensual touch lingers.
I quiver, I quake,
this is an ****** I cannot fake.

To whomever is reading this,

First off, let it be known that I do not seek attention, nor do I wish it even in the slightest. See, I most certainly do prefer to be on my own. The spotlight's far too bright anyway. Or at least, that's what I'm trying to tell myself. However, I still can't seem to shake the feeling that this could very well be a cry for help, and that somehow, these words are my last hope. But then again, it is just another humid night, and maybe I'm only writing to make use of my time as I've come to the realization that I won't be falling asleep at any point soon.

I thought I was doing better, I honestly did. I'd started talking to my friends again. Laughing, sharing jokes, maybe even throwing in a genuine smile every once in a while. I mean, I sure as hell knew that I still had a long ways to go, but, things were finally starting to look up for me. Or so it seemed.

What I've never been able to quite fully understand, is how quickly everything can change. In the blink of an eye, really. Life is not a constant; it's a rollercoaster ride filled with ups and downs and bumps and turns and highs and lows and scary moments. A good day can turn into a horrible day in just a fraction of a second, because that's just the way it goes. We're supposed to grin and bear it because, well, we have to. Things change and people change, and life doesn't stop for anybody.

But tell me, what happens when it's a bad day after a bad day after a bad day? What happens when your friends give up on you? When there's no more jokes to be told and a fake smile is the only thing that will force the corners of your mouth to curve upward? See, maybe I was wrong before. Maybe life really is a constant sometimes; because it seems to me that all I've got are constant feelings of darkness. Depression. Loneliness. Regret. Hatred.

I don't hate the world though, trust me. It's a beautiful place. And maybe, just maybe, if things get better I'll sail the seven seas and travel to all the different countries and just let the greatness of this world engulf me and swallow me whole. I'd like that, I really would. You see, I love this world. It's above and beyond anything I could ever imagine. I don't even hate life, for that matter. The very fact that we are here today has got to be the biggest miracle there is. But then there's my life, which is a whole different story.

Don't get the wrong idea though. I am not complaining about my life. I have a roof over my head, I have food to eat, clean water, an amazing family, and so much more. There are children in this world who I'm sure would love to be me; children who don't have the money to attend school, or even to eat a decent meal. There are people getting *****, assaulted, bullied, and treated poorly every day. I am so lucky that I don't have to deal with any of that. So, why am I so unsatisfied? Why can't I just be grateful for everything that I have?

The thing is, I hate myself. Not only that though, I hate the way I've chosen to live my life. I hate the person looking back at me in the mirror each day, and I hate these thoughts in my head; screaming insults at me every second, loud enough to drown out everything that is good. I've forgotten how to appreciate the little things; like the fresh smell after a day of rain, or long walks on the beach, or laying down on cool grass to look up at the stars on a hot summer night. I guess I'm just too preoccupied with the things I should have done or shouldn't have done, not even thinking about the things that I still can do.

I'm a disappointment. A failure. I have put humans to shame. Why am I still here, when I clearly do not belong in a world of such beauty? Everything I touch gets spoiled; even myself. I should never have been born, but I was. And here I am still, but for what reason? What good can ever become of me? Should I just end it all right here and now, or would that do more harm than good? I don't know...

What I do know is this: I used to have hopes and dreams, always wishing that things would turn out in the end. But it's different now. I'm plummeting down into a tunnel of darkness, and the light that once could be seen near the end is now burnt out. I have no way of escaping.

Hope all is well on your end.

Much love,

Ridley

‘I was too young when I fell for God’, she said
‘I heard you’, I said, ‘I said I could hear you’.

The train was busy, far louder than usual,
and we sat together, fingers wound together. Rough cuticles.

What were we doing so young,
getting married before the eyes of our Son?

Twenty-two and not a thought for the future,
though maybe you’ll be slimmer and I’ll be cuter.

‘I know about you two and your motorbike miles’ I said,
her face turned around, tired. It was Dulux paint-chart red.

‘How did you? Did he? I am sorry’ she said,
‘Oh that’s okay, really it’s fine, not to worry'.

Tube train doors opened and I filed out in no line,
she followed behind, slow. Karma had taken her spine.

‘You could wait to hear my explanation’ she said, tired.
Across the tiled platform floor, I carried on uninspired.

‘It was a stupid weekend away, we took the scenic route. Are we okay?’
Full stop pupils and an open mouth comma, what else could she possibly say?

‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’ she said,
‘Well who knew that Winter was the season of unfair treatment?’ I yelled.

Reached the escalators and walked out single into the fresh air,
turned left onto the street and went looking for the nearest bar.

I’ve been feeling the kind of loneliness
that can only be cured
by someone who can wash away all anxiety and fear with their eyes
by someone whose arms make you warmer than any sun or star
by someone whose voice soothes you until you are in a dreamland
whose laugh permeates even the toughest skin
and fills every crevice with something light and wholesome.
It’s a craving that nothing can satisfy.
It’s unusual and I cannot shake it.

Things have never been easy,
and I have never been one to talk about that.
But I can flip the switch,
a few sparks and a puff of smoke,
and shut down everything
from the inside out.
I can refuse to feel.
And it’s easier that way.

Things have never been painless,
and I have always liked it that way.
(Or so I thought.)
I have four scars to show,
all that’s left from four years
of cutting
and burning
forcing adrenaline to replace
whatever shutdown couldn’t delete.
And it’s less painful that way.

But I am painfully sorry.

Please believe me when I say that I never meant to hurt anyone.
You, especially.
You were the only thing I would miss.
I can’t believe I almost gave you up.
I am selfish. I am cynical.
I am hateful. I am unpleasant.
I am busted, broken, bleeding,
bold and brazen and burned and belligerent
medicated and molded and morphed
and Christ, does anyone know ******* how hard it is
to keep going
to pick up where you left off
when you told yourself
told everyone,
that you were quitting?
When you'd finally dug a hole deep enough to bury yourself in
and they tell you you have to dust yourself off
and climb out
and keep marching?
Does anyone see how ******* difficult it is to smile at them
when you had already accepted the fact
that you’d never see them again?
I chose it for myself
for a ******* reason. And now I’m back
and they think something’s changed?
The solution to my problems
is not as simple as 100 milligrams
of a white pill called happiness.
Maybe this is a chemical imbalance,
maybe my mind is dysfunctional,
or maybe it was meant to be.
But nobody let me choose.

I am sorry. I’m being selfish again.

If you still want me,
after everything I’ve done
to my parents
to my friends
to myself
to you
Whatever is left of me
is yours.
If you still want me.