Dec 2015
there are moments when i can’t decide if i
want to die sooner or later.
and some days it’s like the first regret,
the first time you hurt someone; but then
you do it on purpose, revel in a sickening
way, the manner in which you discover
that empathy is a two-edged sword
and drowning sounds less than
gruesome and more of a fantasy.
i didn’t know how to hurt you until i hurt so much myself.
i learned slamming doors and altercations
with the mirror from my mother and
that’s why my fists are bruised and my
insides are tarnished with self-loathing.
to “forget” to look both ways before i cross
the street is as much a bad habit of mine
as the tendency to bleed for people who
don’t deserve my wounds.
i never thought i’d make it to my 18th birthday.
the real purpose of changing my pillow cases so often
is not for cleanliness but because I figured
my nightmares were multiplying on my sheets.
i haven’t had as many lately but I fear that they’ll
come back, so i keep my superstitions.
i cannot figure out a way to tell you how often sleep
felt like i was practicing for my funeral.
if God embodies the clock work theory, then i am
the first rough draft of a masterpiece,
the intention was supposed to be poetry,
but instead I leave my love on ***** windows
and use stolen ink to write down
all of my bad intentions.
does this confession count if i address my diary to a deity?
if God is an artist
He must be frustrated
with His creations—
screaming in the echoes
of space time,
“when will she learn that
breaking every pen will
only stain her own hands?”
want to die sooner or later.
and some days it’s like the first regret,
the first time you hurt someone; but then
you do it on purpose, revel in a sickening
way, the manner in which you discover
that empathy is a two-edged sword
and drowning sounds less than
gruesome and more of a fantasy.
i didn’t know how to hurt you until i hurt so much myself.
i learned slamming doors and altercations
with the mirror from my mother and
that’s why my fists are bruised and my
insides are tarnished with self-loathing.
to “forget” to look both ways before i cross
the street is as much a bad habit of mine
as the tendency to bleed for people who
don’t deserve my wounds.
i never thought i’d make it to my 18th birthday.
the real purpose of changing my pillow cases so often
is not for cleanliness but because I figured
my nightmares were multiplying on my sheets.
i haven’t had as many lately but I fear that they’ll
come back, so i keep my superstitions.
i cannot figure out a way to tell you how often sleep
felt like i was practicing for my funeral.
if God embodies the clock work theory, then i am
the first rough draft of a masterpiece,
the intention was supposed to be poetry,
but instead I leave my love on ***** windows
and use stolen ink to write down
all of my bad intentions.
does this confession count if i address my diary to a deity?
if God is an artist
He must be frustrated
with His creations—
screaming in the echoes
of space time,
“when will she learn that
breaking every pen will
only stain her own hands?”
