my feet dangle by the edge of the rooftop
and i am terrified that i have every ounce of courage slowly building up inside of me
my soles still sting from the glass shards that sliced my knuckles open
and it was odd how my mind exclusively focused on my feet and not the hands that engaged into combat with my reflection
my hair is in the way, quickly growing into the nuisance it will always be
it tastes of cheap shampoo, cigarettes, fumes and yesterday's drug abuse
but let me tell you this, i do not do drugs
but the cuts on my fingers, and the dirt under my nails, will tell you that i do
it was just a misunderstanding, a punch to the face, a jaw i thought would dislocate, and tears swelling up, obstructed by a lip bite away
i am not clean, i can show you my wrists as proof and more on my arms to gain your sorry's and mercy
but i do not want attention
it's funny since i'm the one seated at the edge of the rooftop, the top floor, the 22nd
and i am trying to capture the entire city by a single look, including my peripheral vision
trying to picture, the edges of the photograph it will be
but my hair is in the way, and i can barely see
so i pretend to perceive the scenery yet attempt to not disregard the words i think they speak
their sounds start to appear as turbid as a puddle of mud
and yet everyone looks happy enough from up here

i grow eager by the second
thoughts do not outstretch and remain abrupt as my legs suspend high up from the ground
and i hope to stay irrelevant
as my fingers slip from the concrete and my wrists twist toward the wind

i will not think of my last words until i am close enough to outline the features on their faces, and trace the roads that are lining up with vehicles, boarded with individuals who will not see me until i am scattered on the pavement

n.j.

ink scratches appear on skin in the
morning as the sunrise falls
into the streets. cars are
screeching and
smoking is rising and
screams are echoing off of the graffitied brick walls -

there's a woman dancing
on the ledge and
she nearly
trips, nearly
dies, nearly
cries out, but her hand grasps
the gate holding her
to the concrete cracked beneath her
feet. sirens are blaring and people are yelling till their lungs
burst and she is laughing because she -

the lines separating happiness and paranoia are faded
when the brain chemistry of a human being
is constructed of hopelessness and oh god why'd he leave me
and the kisses from people who
slowly ruin our bodies, our hearts, ourselves, and -
and -
and -
there is no such thing as black or white; merely grey,
and paintings have no colour when
chemicals in our brains are exploding
chemicals in our brains are spasming
chemicals in our brains are murdering us.

and the woman laughs as she
dances off the edge, the blood
orange sunrise bleeding into
the highways as
black
and
white
and
grey.

everything grey.

There is a town I call home
where streets are filled
with empty people.
People whose only way of death
is by taking their own lives.
When my older brother
committed suicide, that was
the first and last time
I set foot on Holy Ground.
There are people I know
who clutch nooses
instead of rosarys
and maybe this is
the reason my throat
closes up when I am asked
to say my hail Mary's.
But that doesn't stop the
young women in my town
from clutching Bibles
to their chests because
even though we don't
believe in God, we all
still need something
to hold onto.

I am the stovetop
your mother warned you
not to touch when you were five.
You did it anyways, of course,
because you wanted to see if
you could survive the pain.
I remember you telling me
that story on our third date
after I told you I've never met anyone
I didn't end up hurting.
Masochism runs in the family
you said. Wreckage runs in mine.
When I was five I put aluminum foil
in the microwave just to
sit and watch the destruction
it created. When we met, I knew
we wouldn't last long.
Fire and ice together never does.

My mother has recently taken
it upon herself to sleep in
my room with me.
Afraid to leave me
alone for even a minute
out of fear that I will escape
this life sentence.
Which causes me to wonder:
Can you tell I'm on the
verge of death? Do I
wear it like a broken heart
on my sleeve? Are my
intentions as transparent
as a sheet of glass?
I'm aware she is only
concerned out of love...
But can she not tell
that she is only driving
me closer to the brink of insanity?