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 Jan 2019 sadgirl
krm
Retrograde
 Jan 2019 sadgirl
krm
Suicide notes don’t serve their purpose,
just an antiquity of my youth
please don’t promise me your presence-
I know so well,
you must leave with the night’s pin
pricking of stars.
And I,
A child belonging to the sun
hidden-
as twilight’s cloak slips out of my fingers.

Closure and I’s skin never touches,
comfort does not embrace me
and redemption refuses to look me in the eyes.

I’ll never forgive others for dying
But I hope they can forgive my weary spirit
Authenticity in pain
is such a rarity
in this aging process

God it hurts, god it grows old
But I cannot depend on figments any longer;
Too tired of my own silence,
talk ****** talk
instead I substitute ink for
the pool of blood at my feet

Have always known how to plant roses
upon the grave of my sorrow

open my mouth: speak up
make my own choices
life: death
free-will is an illusion.
 May 2018 sadgirl
Kelsey Rhoads
If you are a suicide survivor
Inbox me your name
And I’ll add it to my tattoos of others

You guys mean the world to me
And I have my own name on my arm
Because I too, am a suicide survivor.
Inbox me your name. Make this go viral so I get names. Hopefully it inspires someone to fight a little harder. Anyone wanna join me?

If you understand I’m sorry. Stay strong friend.
 May 2018 sadgirl
Light House
Writing is weird: You have to isolate yourself,
but the mood to write
often strikes
when you are surrounded by others
 May 2018 sadgirl
helena alexis
SUN GIRLS: sun-kissed goddesses, some a little darker than others because the sun loves them just a little bit more, writes poetry sitting outside a local coffee shop, always happy all the time, loves the color yellow, wears mom jeans and tucked in t-shirts all the time, is soft and loves love, long hair, mostly in braids or ponytails.

MOON GIRLS: dark circles under their eyes, parties a lot, drinks to forget their heartbreak, red lipstick and black eyeshadow, sleepless nights accompanied by anxiety, owns over 20 different leather jackets, loves adrenaline, risk-taker, a smoker, strong smell of cigarettes and mint gum, smirks a lot, flirty, secretly likes sun girls
 Apr 2018 sadgirl
Sky
toronto rain
 Apr 2018 sadgirl
Sky
your eyes,
waxy and chromatic
seeped through my clothes and
soaked my skin,
bent my bones and
dyed my concrete spine
blue magenta.

forgive me, forgive me
my revolving-door mouth,
my pendulum heart,
my clammy hands.

my religion is jazz but
i swear to God,
I'm Roman Catholic.

and so I brought you some tulips,

cause I can't lose you
to New York.
baby give me a chance
 Apr 2018 sadgirl
Middy
Clinking cutlery and stomping feet
Shuffling of the seats
Laughs and cries of " I won, I won! "
Adults outside playing ping pong
There's music and dancing
Little girls prancing
Baby boys playing with their toys

Nothing unusual to them
The usual birthday party fun
But not for the girl in the corner
Crying on the floor
Her hands covering her ears
In a usual birthday party
Sorry for not being on for so long guys!
 Apr 2018 sadgirl
Ashly Kocher
Someone asks you
                         “Tell me something good that happened to you today”
                       My reply......



         I woke up and I’m alive....
Always happy for when you awake in the morning... tell me something good...
 Apr 2018 sadgirl
KM Hanslik
City angels are born
wings scrawny and underdeveloped
from alcohol poisoning.
City angels are born
skin gray and pale like the dust
in their mama's ashtray on the nightstand.
City angels are born choking
on fumes consumed in the womb,
lungs soft and weak before
they ever take their first breaths.  

City angels die
under streetlamps and chased down alleyways
by city cops.
City angels die
in a hurry, sipping beer on the freeway on the drive home
or slowly,
throwing up blood on the back porch and downing
more pills to forget their thoughts.

City angels live
somewhere between here and
the death of their dreams,
writing up new fates to include
drinking and smoking and
drowning their fears in a million little exchanges
of bodies and money
in a dark room somewhere.

City angels are just kids
living too fast
chasing too hard
dying too young.
Get the hell out before
you tally up the body count and realize
how many there are buried under all this rubble
we call "home"
We step on their graves every day on
the way to work
the intersection beside the gas station
the corners of abandoned
parking lots and
caved-in buildings.
We walk over their bodies and we never know their names or why
they never came home to
their bug-ridden beds and
the red eyes of their mamas.
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