Sometimes I sit in the bathtub in my basement and play with a calibre. It's always loaded. I like to un-**** and **** it because I like the sound it makes.

I also like to put it between my teeth because when the metal hits my teeth, it rings.

Feeling so close to the hand of death is sort of comforting to me. It's irrelevant to the fact that I'd much rather you be the one stuffing that gun in my mouth, than have myself do it.

I guess I give you too many privileges.

Sometimes I really like to hear you cry.

I like how raw and deep your voice sounds when you talk in your sleep.
I like the way you lick the blood off the floor after you stabbed that baby.
I like how you paint roses black and dip them in blood.

Sometimes you make me feel like less of a little girl and more like a psychopath. I really like that.

This life I'm living isn't the one I ever wanted to be living.
I never wanted to be beaten by my dad when I was only six.
I didn't want him to leave when I was seven.
I didn't want my mom staying up for three days at a time, smelling like sweat and ***.
I didn't want to see my mom in the hospital after my dad did God-knows-what to her.
I never wanted my Grandpa to get sick.
I never wanted my Grandpa to leave us either, but he did.
I didn't want my mom to get cancer.
I never wanted her to scream at me when I was depressed.
I didn't know how else to communicate; all I knew was anger.
I never wanted to take a razor to my wrist or try to overdose on those sleeping pills.
I never wanted to cry alone every night.
I never wanted to not be able to stop lying.
I never wanted to make all those people up.
I never wanted to make my mom cry the night before she died.
I never wanted to talk to my walls, and ask if anyone was listening or if anyone cared.
I didn't want to not feel safe anywhere, not even in my dreams.
I didn't want my hands to go numb when I got sad.
I never wanted to down too many shots after I tried my best.
I never wanted to feel like I didn't belong.
I didn't want to hear my mom's voice when I was falling asleep.
I didn't want to have the only voice that would talk to me be my own.
I didn't want to have to think about what I said before I said it.
I never wanted to fall in love with five different boys's eyes that were all brown.
I never wanted to watch my mom cry as she pulled all her hair out.
I didn't want to cry for three days after he told me he didn't love me anymore.
I never wanted to not be able to say the right things; I could only write them.
I never wanted to have to sleep in the middle of my bed because the edge reminded me of my mom laying dead on the floor.
I never wanted to be scared of heights until he got me high off the look in his eyes when he told me he loved me.
I didn't want to be drowned by the thoughts that crawled into my mind at night. I never wanted to hate what I saw in the mirror.
I never wanted to cry over my mom's dead body.
I never wanted to feel like this.
I didn't want to live this life I'm living, so I guess this is my suicide note to whoever finds me dead first.

I have dreams of caressing your face,
And it's cold,
And it's dead.
But I'm more alive than ever
And I'm standing on your grave
Waiting for you to rise up
Out of the hollow earth you lay in.

The way you'd laugh and wave
Every time my sad heart
Would pass your lively, beautiful soul.

My love for your dead body
Is no less than the love I felt for your beating heart.

The flames are crawling up the wall,
Engulfing me in certain death.
It reminds me of the way you kiss:
sharp and exciting,
yet soothing and comforting.

The flames have swallowed me now;
I don't think you'll ever hold me
The way they do.

You can look at a photo of a missing girl,
And just by her hairline,  
You can tell how many times she's been *****
In the past forty-eight hours.

If you were to put my body to words,
You'd start with my feet:
Scarred and bruised,
From the miles I've tread,
To have gotten as far as I have.

Feet covered in colors so brilliant,
Even the blind could get a glimpse.
You'd look back on my trail,
To see the grass,
The trees,
The flowers,
Illuminated in what I've left behind.

My legs:
Covered in words,
Animals,
And many faces
Of those I've tread this arduous grove with:
From the past,
Present,
And future.

Legs scattered with bite marks
From the sweet animals that flock to my side;
During the night,
I lay helplessly
Tied to the bed,
While they gnaw at my ankles.

Legs polluted with holes in my thighs
From where people came into my life,
And abruptly left;
Burning holes into my flesh
With their absence.

My hips:
Knives jutting out cleanly,
Entwined in bounteous amounts of ivy.

Hips wrapped in lace,
Pleading release,
Appealing as a ripened peach;
Ready to be bite into.

Hips touched by so many eager hands,
It no longer gives the rush
Of a sports car speeding past
After a warm Summers rain--
It leaves only the feeling of remorse.

So lustrous are those amber eyes
Looking back into my soul.

You know not of my undying love for you
Conveying itself in ceaseless amounts poetry.
Despite your lack reciprocation,
I have yet to capitulate.

Pinned and wriggling on a wall,
She takes his breath with a single horizontal slice;
She reaches in his throat
And pulls out his every whim and desire
To live, to die, to fight.
She smears it across her face
And with a single touch of lips,
His last breath is drawn out
And devoured by her peripheral soul.
His beard is ******:
Just how she desired it so.

Razor blades
And lines of snow
Lay on the table.

Blood and *****
Stain the bed sheets.

You have no reason to live
So you press needles deep into your veins--
They awake your soul
And tell you you're dead

He's rattling off again about the final touchdown;
You think about her jeans. . .
The way she fits in them:
Tight, yet ready to be ripped off.
You think about her hair. . .
How it falls in a cascade of curls--
In the morning it smells like basil and cotton,
And at midnight,
It reeks of whiskey and desperation.

You throw yourself
Down the stairs
In your best dress;
You hold your own hair back
When you throw up.
You wish for razors on your wrist
Rather then my fingernails
Trailing down your back.
She was my yesterday,
And she is my everyday.

A redundant statement
I may be.
Falling over myself
To be what everyone wants me to be.
And yet,
I am here,
Nothing but sad,
Nothing but a *****.

You drag yourself to the table,
Fall into the arms of a chair,
Wishing they were the arms of your lover.
Your frail fingers find the cold fork.
A moon is set upon your plate.
She was the light of your life,
And now she's gone--
Just how to moon leaves the sun every morning.

Black nail polish,
Tongue piercings,
And lips red as ripe apples.
You're lying on the floor,
Smoke is curling around your head.
The boys are swimming in stars,
And your sister's chopping
Eyes out of a rabbit:
Acid nightmares, that's all it is,
You think to yourself.

Wrists so red
From all the kisses of the razor.
Lightly licking
Her soft skin.
Not blood,
But words drips incessantly
From her poetry veins