And then I realized,
you don't even care about me anymore.

She's been there since
the 4th grade.
The years where there were no scars
on my arm,
when our smiles shone through the stars,
where out friendship was new with years to come.

I don't know how it is
that I can love someone so much without actually being
in love with her.

She is my best friend.

She's always been there,
even when it was tough.
We worked things out,
it's a new start.

She showed me how to be happy,
how to cry because I'm the one who made the
hugest impact on her,
how to love someone unconditionally,
without having a relationship.

She is the sun that my lightens my day,
and the stars that lighten my night.

She is the intelligence that I feed off of
on those nights.

That day I told her I had harmed,
oh how she hated herself for not being there.
And I hated myself for the pain I had caused my better half.

That night that we opened and looked out my window,
let the cold breeze hit our faces.
Listened to music.
We did not speak a word.  

When she hates herself it pains me,
because she has no idea what she really is.
She is perfect to me.

She is my best friend,
a rare one at that.

Who knew that my hero would be
someone I never met?
How could it be I feel like I know him
even though I don't?
How could his being make such a huge impact on me,
and how was it that it was him that made me decide
not to end my life?
Why is it that I know he loves me
when he doesn't even know me?

Austin Carlile,
you are my hero.

But,
do you ever stop to think,
"Where did the idea come from?"

That's how I think it's possible.

I died looking in her eyes.

When I almost downed that bottle of pills,
I didn't stop and think that in the future I would have someone as great as you.

That day I fell in love with the taste of your lips.

The amount of scars that line my body could never amount to the love I have for you.

Her beauty aligns with the stars in the sky.

I don't need to be high;
I have you.

I wish I was hungover on her.

I need her like I need air in my lungs.

I'm tired,
and she's beautiful.

Every Friday night we
hang out and make out.
We talk and listen to music,
and we know the night isn't getting younger.
When you're asleep at my house I always think about sneaking a cigarette,
but I know you can't stand the smell, so I don't.
I end up falling asleep.

Every Saturday morning I awake at your house
and sometimes mine.
You're always the first awake,
playing on your phone.
You lie next to me,
and I put my head on your chest.
I love the sound of your heartbeat.
We eat breakfast, get dressed, and go out sometimes.
By the end of the day, we end up at your house on Saturdays.
We fall asleep like we normally would, cuddling.

On Sunday we wake up,
the normal routine.
We always eat waffles or pancakes with your mom, dad, sometimes your brother and ALWAYS Gary.
We always go somewhere on Sundays,
whether it be New Orleans, the Mall, or the lakefront.
By the end of the day, we go to our separate homes,
and Monday comes.

I told her that every things been going smoothly,
that I'm okay.
The little red lines that run along my skin scream for another answer to give,
but I resisted.

I always choke on my words before I spit them out,
dragging out my sentences,
trying to make sense of what I have to say.

Maybe they don't even give a **** anyway.

At this point,
I have no idea what I'm saying.
My fingers are typing things that I never have time to think about.

Maybe it's not me who's crazy,
I can't be,
can I?

No,
I don't think I'm crazy.

But when I write,
something takes over me.
I suddenly have time to think.

Surely this doesn't just happen to me.
Others must feel the same.
Right?

Why,
I'm supposed to be happy.

I am though,
aren't I?

Is it just the pills?
Who the **** knows,
or really cares anyway.

My fingers are taking place of my head,
I honestly don't know what I'm rambling about.
But in reality,
who the **** cares?

The thoughts are clawing at the insides of my thighs,
waiting on that sweet release.
My wrist tries to whisper sweet nothings,
again, waiting for a release.
My head,
it's tangled with images that want to be real.
My nose yearns for that metal smell.
That smell that lingers from the sweat of my fingers
to the silver blade.
My ears wanting to hear the shredding of skin.
And the red,
the red blood that flows in my veins,
from underneath my meaningless skin.
I think,
maybe the ****** cuts that could dance upon my skin,
make the metallic smell linger in the air,
having my guts spilling out,
would be worth it.
But I think again,
and it's not.

You yelled,
threw things around.

Hit,
scratched,
punched.

I didn't lay a finger on you,
but you layed all ten on me.

That morning,
I counted.
13 bruises,
15 scratches.

We all have our scratches and bruises,
but at the hand of a loved one?

Even after that,
you're still perfect to me.

We fell in love that year.
Love spoke that night,
drunken at a bar.
First beer,
second,
third,
fourth,
fifth...I'd lost count.

You had a few,
one,
two,
three...I didn't really count.

Love had a voice of its own in a drunken state.
It told you I loved you.
Love doesn't lie when you're this wasted,
it merely tells the truth.

You grabbed my by the shoulders.
Kissed me,
and Love spoke again.
"I love you, too."

Surely,
Love spoke,
but deep down I know,
I was the one who really spoke.

I remember how you smiled into the air
on that cold Friday night.
And I remember how your smile turned into
a dead grin.

I hope to forget the day I found you.

Everyone loses someone,
but I should have never lost you.

You, my love,
you were the light of my day,
the dark of my night.

Your cold, dead skin,
rotting away.
You should be rotting in my arms.

Oh,
how I remember you holding my hand.
And how you would kiss my lips and I would
float into a daze.

You're gone.
And this is my story.

Oh,
how you walked by me,
gave me that smile,
held my hand.

You made me choke on my words,
you made me forget how to breath.
I couldn't swallow.

And when you kissed me,
I swear I floated in midair.
And that night you cuddled into the curves of my back,
I smiled.

Nothing quite makes sense when you're by my side,
you ******* alive.

Day by day you remind me how to
breathe,
swallow,
and forget.

And for that,
you are mine.

If I had a choice of how to die,
I'd chose for it to be on my own terms.

She knows the feeling.
She knows what it's like to kiss razors.
Little red lines dance across her arm.
Her eyes dream of tomorrow.
I can tell how badly she wants the pain to wear away.
I can tell how scared she is.


Don't worry darling,
I can hear you scream.

At the ATL concert Monday night I got to thinking. Every little thing at a concert that happens, the wait, the actual concert, and the memories, they save people, make them happy. I remember the wait for Warped, that’s when my depression was really bad and I was planning to **** myself, knowing that I was going to be there, in that crowd made me want to keep living. After the Sleeping with Sirens concert, I didn’t cut months after that concert. And the complete feeling of euphoria of actually being there in front of the people who were there for you when no one else was. It makes you think, “oh I actually am happy, it isn’t the pills,” or “wow, maybe there is another way I can actually make myself feel better besides cut.” Just knowing how much you mean to the members, you can just tell in their voices how much they care; how comfortable they are with you, how serious they can get, how they carry on each and every single song. Concerts, bands save lives, so if you say they don’t, you have no idea what it feels like to have nothing to live for except music. Music has saved my life, and I have no way to repay those that have made the music, played the shows, and cared for me. There is no way I can repay them for them giving me my life back. Thank you to all of the bands that have done so, thank you.

And just like that,
another friend down the drain.
I did nothing to make you hate me,
but it is what it is...

right?

Should've killed myself when I had the chance.

I blame myself
for what you do to
yourself.

How clichè,
the rain
falling down on the grass we were sitting in.
You leaned in,
as did I.
"Can I kiss you?"
That one question lead to one peck.
My first kiss,
her's too.

In the bed,
we cuddled and held hands,
that's when your lips once again met mine.

Oh,
how I can get use to the feel of your
soft lips on mine.
I could do it for a lifetime.

We're all ****** on life,
getting high as the day goes by.

He's on the ground bleeding to death.
She's leaning over the toilet, making herself sick.
That ten year old is crying themselves to sleep.
The "gay" boy just shot himself in the head.
The teens are taking shots, killing the pain with a drag of a joint.

We never stop to see each other's pain and agony.
We never stop to see the anguish everyone's in.

While people have scars and cuts along their body,
tears down their face,
they haven't eaten in three days,
they're taking pills,
the assumption is we're all happy.

Think again.

Who am I even writing for anymore?
Certainly not myself.

I have love on my mind,
and a body that's always next to mine.
I'm still having those thoughts
that turn into huge knot.
My scars are starting to be mended,
oh, how I thought it had ended.

New scar,
new memory,
new story.

I am not actually happy,
it's just the pills.

Now that I'm happy
the silence doesn't bring twisted thoughts
and
pencil sharpeners are used for things other than just the blade
and
the pills are nothing more than a friend
and
food is for eating                               h
and now,                                     g
now there's beauty.            i
There's beauty up     h
and down     l
                              o
                                       w.
those bad times were for just a moment,
but now there's a lifetime of happiness.

I can't write pretty words,
let alone speak them.
Pretty words don't leave my head
now that I feel alive again.
I almost feel no pain,
I almost feel no happiness.
I'm totally okay,
and I think it's driving me insane.

It's almost been a year since the last time I starved myself,
and I think it's time to cut back on the food again.

Raw emotion fills his lungs,
screaming the stories of lost lovers
and tragic lives.
Talking along with the beat,
the guitar playing to the pitch of his voice.
I listen while his heart pours out
over
and
over.
And the best thing,
the emotion can never leave.

It's terrifying how one flick of the wrist,
with the razor in between fingers,
doesn't hurt one bit.
No sting,
no burn,
just relief.

I want to die.
I hate living.
I actually want to **** myself,
not just not exist.
I want my life to end on my own terms,
and I feel that it will.


                                     Oh ****, it's getting bad again.

Elegant her mind was,
the beauties of
death,
blood,
sadness.

Elegant her skin was,
scarred,
tarnished.

Elegant her thoughts were,
pills,
blade,
noose,
drown.

Elegant she was,
or every one thought she was.

Her real elegance didn't show through her every day life,
only to those who wanted to hear,
and those that wanted to hear were
the demons.

Her elegance, in the end
is what destroyed her,
leaving the truth behind,
she wasn't so elegant after all.

If Dexter Morgan was real,
maybe he'd **** the demons
that threaten to **** me.

My thoughts took me down the stairs,
it was fuzzy as can be.
Everything was blurry,
I could not see.
Found my way into the kitchen,
took a pill.
I thought maybe I could take several more,
hoping during the night they would ****.

The fuzziness subsided,
and I lay in my bed.
I did not go downstairs,
and I sure wasn't dead.

It was all just a daydream,
a dream never to come true.
A dream different than any others,
and it sure won't shoo.
They are scary as hell,
not that I mind.
It's weird,
I like them I find.

It's true when they say
curiosity killed the cat,
because the curiosity of my father
almost killed me.

I don't see how you can call be beautiful when I have
self-inflicted wounds dancing on my tarnished body.

How can you think a monster like me is worth it?

I just can't comprehend you wanting to be around me.
I'm just a ******-up kid trying to make it through.

I can't write about love.
I simply don't know how.
Sad things are my specialty.
I just wish I could form words about you.