morrissey said "to die by your side is such a heavenly way to die" and donnie darko said "every living creature on earth dies alone"
and maybe we're thrusting ourselves ourselves into the unknown
but from what i know the birds tell us stories with their wings and the sky is a lot more beautiful than his hands ever were to me and the overgrowth in the woods holds more passion than my eyes do some nights
when we walk through this world, we are doing so alone

to die on your own is a way most people don't want to go.

we have shipwrecks in our hearts and thunderstorms under our fingernails and sometimes i swear to god i can hear the rain in your exhale and highways never come to a complete end so why should we

comatose linked to these tombstones and the way you never understood what her eyes were saying when her lips couldn't move
i keep thinking back to the sunday mornings i found god in and i see the exasperation staining my knees from all the pleas i was sending back to me

maybe we have to see our own blood on the pale white concrete before we can understand what love is or what the sunset really means and i guess i'm saying i lost so many parts of me that i mopped up the blood and rung it out into the veins of a creature you'll never meet

to die in the passengers seat of a car with your heart on your sleeve and their saliva still on your lips is the way most people want to give death it's first kiss

we are brooding through the wavelengths of familiarity and unfamiliarity all at once and we chant deja vu when we meet someone new because they say the last thing you see when you die is those you love so what do we do when we **** the things we once knew and love all things brand new

to die by my own side is such a heavenly way to say goodbye.

Poetry is creating words that flow through fingertips and onto the paper as rivers do into the ocean.

i will wade out
                        till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                       Alive
                                                 with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                       in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                            Will i complete the mystery
                                            of my flesh
I will rise
               After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
             And set my teeth in the silver of the moon

Some days it's hard to breathe. For the past two years, there's been a weight sitting on my chest. Drawing in oxygen feels like hiking through piles and piles of snow just moments after the storm. I don't know where I'm going.
Some days I take my glasses off at school. I like the way the world blurs in front of my eyes and fog settles in the forefront of my vision not unlike the way depression can blind you with only a small shift in perspective.

The first time I wanted to kiss a girl, I was fourteen, and the scars on my hips from feeling too much too young had barely healed. Picture a shy, high school freshman who hadn't yet figured out if she wanted to live. Her breath caught in a cloud of promise and mouth left open just enough to speak if she decided it was allowed, thoughts halted with the wonder of the girl laughing next to her. As the girl simultaneously overflowed with beauty and mirth as only girls can, I was terrified by the prospect of being different. I didn't know if it was allowed.

I went to see my therapist today, and he asked me why I tried to **** myself. I couldn't say it was because of my sexuality because my mother was sitting right next to me. Instead, I said it was because I felt numb. It wasn't a lie, I just left out the part where every Saturday dance class was becoming a steady stream of homophobic monologues and each passing comment left me staring at my wrists more often than the last like a lifeline- a final bridge to Terabithia where I could dance without worrying how my thighs looked and run without worrying about who from and love without the compulsory package of suicide.

My depression started as a fog. It crept over me while I watched powerless and stole away my friends one by one. Misery loves company, and we ran from it in a race to the death but we couldn't opt out. All I have left from what they call my suicide attempt is a vertical scratch on my left wrist where I was too afraid to press harder. I wasn't afraid of death. I was afraid of waking up, and the marathon that would come with it.

Slip me in an envelope
seal me in safety
put a stamp on and,
address to anywhere
I don't want to know
And really do not care
as long as no one
Can see the inverted me.

I'm afraid I'll end up living a small life,
in a small place,
and my small dreams
are just what remain.
That when I'm decaying somewhere
far underground and returning
to where I began
All I'll be is a small memory
in just another brain.
The words I've scribbled (or typed)
will all be long gone.
the people I made smile
will be all far away.
I'm afraid of when
my small spirit starts to fade.

Steal everything you have ever loved.
Set it to another verse
of borrowed phrases
and humble pie.
Somewhere in the spaces
between the song-writer's ohm
and the poet's demise,
others will form your stolen loot,
your dead-sea scrolls,
into the multitude of inspiration
that constitutes your Self.

The banks are running dry.
All freedom is restrained
to the ticking of a box
and the punching of a clock.
There is no shame in stealing
a resonant thought.
It is the way Revolution happens,
an idea projected, then repeated,
repeated, re-written and spoken
in one thousand tongues.
If your lover leaves you,
it is nothing special.

Yet if a stranger's words steal your breath,
stripped to a naked consciousness,
you have every right to pilfer their mind,
to bridge understanding,
to share in a longing,
to replicate a sentence
in which truth was left unconfined.

'Into the darkness, out of the light'
into the weird of the wonderful night.
Set free,
you and me,
off we skip happily,
for we
are the clusters,
the dusting of stars on
the evening and
Mars
won't go to war because
of that.