I asked her why she cut herself,
and she said,
"Because death has an edge
and life is pointless."
She asked that I not
write a poem
romanticizing suicide,
just a poem about
how hard it can be
to celebrate life.

We used to make paper planes
as flimsy as our confidence.
Nothing ever flew the same,
smothered by the thawing sky.
We counted the seconds
until rain ate their bodies,
"5,6,7,8".

Too afraid to go outside,
mom and dad are gone.
Hovering hips beside
the holes in our walls.
Staring out the window
as foggy breath falls.

Seaweed salad and water
before we sleep.
Thinking about
if the paper graves
are as deep  
as the cheap cliches
in our head.

You told me not to worry but you never told me how. Somehow I see you even when you aren't here. I understand why you left I just wanted you to tell me why. I still think about what happened and I still think it was my fault. I want to ask you what it felt like to hear me cry and if she's what you thought about when you were holding me. But all I have is Good Bye.

It's not the dark that scares me
or what is under my bed
it's who's in it
because I know myself
and that's the worst part.

Everything I write
reads like you
but reflects me.

all that I can
get down on paper
is how easy it was
to say sorry and then
nothing at all

I want to find out
what it is about you
that makes my fingers
itch for a pen
when I know they're
all out of ink

I don't think I
really know anything
at all but I want to know you

I'm sixteen
and I think I love you
I want you to save me
because I can't save myself
I hide behind
a full plate
and a notebook
covered in words
that you will never
understand
you took everything
from me because you
knew I loved you
that much.
The leaves are
changing and so am I.
Every pen I own has
ran out of ink
I hate that I said
it was okay when
it wasn't because
I wasn't.
It's winter now
and nothing
has changed.