why does she think everything is beautiful.
her feels numb,
maybe she crys for others.
maybe theres something wrong.

oh, maybe theres something wrong.
she know she cant fix it.
maybe the white cloth can wipe
her surface.

it's fine to be in the coffin.
I don't think i want to break out of it.
maybe I'll suffocate a little bit longer.

do not read this poem
it is not made for you
this poem is a secret untold
of a memory I rarely think of
that was resurrected today
and I am the only one who knows it
and this poem is for me alone

I was maybe 5 years old and I both
do and don't remember her falling
spilling out of the giant porch window
like a slippery black fish out of water
and I do and don't remember seeing blood
on the snow and sidewalk and the sound
first of the fall, then someone opening the door
and I didn't understand where she went
instead, I stayed with my grandmother
who told me it was my fault she jumped
she didn't love me any more and I was bad
that she wouldn't be back for me
and I believed it, of course, it made sense
some of us are just born wicked, I knew
I have always been wretched, inhumane
she said she first noticed the evil in me
when I was very little, behind my dead eyes
that it was always there inside of me
so I knew the only way to rid myself
of my own evil was to do the same thing
she had done, all those years ago
so I wrote a letter and labelled it
Do Not Read
the last letter I ever thought I'd have to write
and it's a sad sort of irony that I would be
paying homage to someone who hated me so
but the black fishes and spirits from beyond
never came for me, and I wondered if
the worst punishment of all would be
to continue to be haunted and survive
just as she had all those years ago

I have been debating right and wrong my whole life.
I have been standing on a tightrope waiting for my emotions to crave it.
Being taught my favorite color since age 2 and the way I was supposed to be.
I have truly learned a few number of things,
the most important being suicide isn't the worst thing.
Failing to completely be who everyone chose you to be is the worst thing.
Not wearing a dress and tights to church on Sunday, not loving flowers or the color pink.
The worst thing is choosing who YOU want to be.
So I think I have found the reason it is more likely for someone like me to **** themselves off.
I am not who they or you wanted me to be.
I am free.

You told me today,
That you wanted to die.
I could tell in your voice,
That it wasn’t a lie.

I never noticed till now,
Of how you fidgeted more.
I never noticed till now,
Of the sweaters you now wore.

But I did noticed now,
How your skin seemed pailer,
How your eyes darker.
Have you been eating?
Have you even been sleeping?

But when you told me,
I finally saw.
The darkness that surrounds you.
When did you start to fall?

Why didn’t I noticed,
That your smile missed your eyes.
Why didn’t I noticed,
That your voice told such lies.

If I had noticed sooner,
Would this had ever happened.
If I had noticed sooner,
Would you had never saddened.

I screamed for you,
Wanting it to not be true,
I cried for you,
Though I didn’t have a clue.

I waited for you,
For you to react,
But the mirror stayed still,
My image intact.