Two and a half years clean
and I still miss it every day,

it used to be hard for me
even to know there was a
bottle in my cupboards,

now, it’s just a lingering
thought, an ever present
"this is an option"
kind of like suicide

but suicide I’m much
more grateful for,

not that I want to die,
but that I want that control,
I’ve been saying so since I
was thirteen years old

that I’m not afraid of death,

I’m just afraid of not
being in control of it.

- S.G.

I hope this
cigarette finally
gets rid of the
taste you left
in my mouth

like coffee-breath,
that lingers until
it’s scoured away

I’ve tried
mouthwash,
dish soap,
bleach

and there’s
still your
after-taste

but does
it really matter
when I always
break down and
have another
cup later,
anyways?

- S.G.

Eternity probably doesn’t exist
at least not the eternity
that I was taught my whole life

Maybe life is pointless
maybe everything we work up to
is a waste
and maybe we’re all
completely insignificant

But as long as I get to spend
the little time that I do have here
with you,
I don’t care.

I could wait
for the moment that death decides
to stop looming over my shoulder
to finally take me down with it
or I could spend all of that time
learning what you,
your mouth,
your eyes,
your body
has to teach me.

And honestly I wouldn’t mind
being completely ignorant
to the rest of the world if it meant
I was busy studying you.

- S.G.

You asked me why I don’t like bringing people around
why I spend every day alone in my room
when I have plenty of people who would love my company
and my thoughts were so tangled around the real answer that
all I could tell you was that something in me changed a few months ago

I couldn’t get it out of me
you cannot know that I have succumbed to my need for control
and now it is what controls me

I don’t make my own decisions,
everything is pre-planned and mechanical

while I let my hands crawl their way
down my throat and empty out my stomach
I tell myself this is it,

this is really what it means
to be in control

I let myself believe that fighting my demons
means giving up every ounce of control that I have gained
in the past two years
by giving up myself

I don’t want them,
I don’t want you,
to get close to me because if you’re close enough
you can see the cracks in my skin

but no one can see how easily
I fracture if I keep my distance

I don’t want to be broken,
but more than that I don’t want you to realize that I am.

- S.G.

Keep your hands away, don’t look at the thick of my hips, I don’t feel small enough for your love today.

- S.G.

I have thought that
so many times that I
honestly
could not tell you

but if I could give you
anything in the world
it would be an answer
to all the questions
that eat at you
every single day

most importantly
an answer that fulfills you

But I guess
death just defeats
all consolation

And I can see your heart break
every time you talk about the future
every time you let your love for life
swallow you

-S.G.

I wasn’t looking
for God, but I
found the Devil,

He slid his
hands up my
skirt, rosary
beads and
all, breathing
skewed
bible verses
into my ******
ears like Mary,

The only tongue
he spoke in
was the one
he was sliding
down my throat,
forked and
snakelike,

He told me,
"Your absence
of faith is pleasing
though incorrect,
you see, just as
seeing doesn’t
mean believing,
rejecting something
doesn’t rob it of
it’s existence.
That means your
sin still counts.”

And I will burn in Hell,
just like everyone else.

- S.G.

I will never stop wanting more of you,
every breath, every word,
there will always be things
that you keep inside of yourself,
but I want to hear every thought you push aside,
I want to know your darkness,
the cobwebs you hide in the recesses of your mind
because I know you have so many shades that I have yet to see,
that you don’t even know yourself,
and I want to learn them with you

you may think all of your candles have burned out
but without light, there are no shadows

- S.G.

I hear voices in the walls,
footsteps of ghosts walking down my hall,
and though I know I created them
I still can’t help but be afraid

They speak in whispers
telling me what I want to hear,
giving me someone to blame,
someone other than myself

but if they really are all in my mind,
I guess I’m just sending myself in circles

maybe that’s why my head
always feels like it’s spinning

Or maybe I just
cannot fathom why I would
construct such a thing that would
aid my demise, as it convinces me
that it is all I need

giving me the illusion that
my feet are steady on the ground
while it pushes me
closer and closer to the edge

- S.G.

We laid in perfect silence
only broken by the occasional
"I can hear your heartbeat."

Just laying
breathing
listening

Getting a glimpse of our future
"I wish we could just stay here."
we whisper in the darkness
as our time runs out

When our time’s up
there are too many words
that I should say to fill you up
before I leave
to keep you full
until next time

But I will settle for “I love you and I promise I will see you soon.”

-S.G.

kiss me deeply,
use the rhythm
of your hips to
tell me you love me
without words,

let me do all
the talking, only
when I write
about the heat
of your breath
on my neck,

the grip of
your hands
on my hips,

the overwhelming
thrill when I feel
your weight
on top of me,

because when
words fail, all I
need is your
body language.

- S.G.

I have some of
the deepest hatred
for people who use other people’s
names in poetry,
and music,
and anything that’s art.

I believe that
you are supposed to
be able to relate to art.

And when I read
someone else’s name
All I can think is,
that I really am
completely and utterly
on my own with my feelings.

****, I really am alone.

-S.G.

Every poet writes of
the moon as if they know her,
drinks coffee like water,
and overuses words that
they have never even said aloud

Because no one truly cares
what the writer felt,
if the interpretation
did not feel relative to the reader himself

       An indent here,
a story about bruised knees,
a summer that should have never ended,
and love that should have
                  before it even began
A copy of a copy,
of a copy, of a copy

and no one seems to notice,
unless while reading,
they felt nothing similar

I could tell you I have flowers
sprouting from my rib-cage,
and a rabbit thumping away in my chest,

but if that means nothing to you
I become just another
******, wannabe internet writer
who failed to make
your heart-strings
resound

- S.G.

When I look at you
I see a light that refuses to burn out,
no matter how many times the wind
uses all its might to blow out your candles

a light that flickers, and dims,
and fades but still remains
through the darkest nights

and in lucid daylight
continues to burn

because no matter how bright the sun can shine,
there is no such thing, as too much light.

- S.G.

Everyone I’ve spoken to


Tells me that if you were
“Actually” suicidal


You wouldn’t want
Anyone to know

To be honest I’ve


Probably said it myself


A few times

But I don’t know if


I can believe that,


Because every time


I think of dying


All I want to do is


Scream, “Hear me,


hear my ******* voice
and understand it, because


I need you to know that
This is real,
and this is all I think about”

And I don’t want to hear


That it is going to get better.


I just want to feel legitimate again.

- S.G.

I am
Spiraling,  
        spiraling,
spiraling

         d
           o
             w
               n,

and I can’t
find one thing
to grasp onto,

not the
smallest little
bit of hope to
cling to,

the ember
burning bright
at the end of my
cigarette does
not make up
for the sunlight
I’ve been lacking,

and the words
stuck on repeat
in my head, like
a skipping vinyl,

every living
          thing dies,
      every living thing
dies, every living
     thing dies, and soon
                     you will too,

do not mourn
over loss of
perspective
while you still
have hold of it,

do not mourn
for the emptiness
you will no longer feel,

do not mourn
for Heaven,
and do not
mourn for Hell,

just be happy
          it all ends.

- S.G.

my knuckles
are ******,
and I am tired

every punch I
throw means
nothing when
the enemy is
myself

I am constantly
in search for
my own voice
to find the
courage
to say,

"I don’t want to
be sad anymore,”

but even though
I know I can’t keep
living with this,
I’m not sure if I
can live without
it either.

- S.G.

Let me fill the
extra space between
your sheets

miss me
when you don’t wake up
to whispered hellos
between half-sleep kisses

and if your
wandering hands can’t
find my warmth
at 3am when you wake
from a dream
wish for me

- S.G.

Kiss me with
your burning
lips,
let your
curious fingers
run down to
the small of
my back
and find
their home
there
between my
hips,
let the heat
melt away
the years of
wasted passion
and make me
feel again.

- S.G.

I don’t need you
to save me,

I need you to
cut me open,

Bleed out
all the darkness
I’ve been withholding
and tell me it’s okay
to be broken

Find my scars
lovely,
and don’t try to
kiss them away

Wrap up my bones
with kind words and
don’t let me forget
that feeling doesn’t
always mean
pain.

- S.G.

I love you like you are the last breath I’ll ever take,
breathing you in fully; your everything turned to particles in my lungs, growing
cancerous tumors in my chest where there may as well be a sign hanging,
between my *******, ‘Yours, all yours’ because there will never be
another that can poison me and make me whole the way that you do.

- S.G.

Tonight I bent over
to slide my fingers down
my throat & purge my sins away,

but I came to find that
my esophagus has learned
so much after months of this
nightly ritual that it no longer
needs my assistance

it’s hard to exist when
the things you are most
proud of are the things
you have to hide from
everyone else.

- S.G.

I’m sorry
that I don’t
want help
nearly
as much
as I want
to stop
waking up.

- S.G.

***** up my sorrows
'til I'm empty,
'til I'm cold.

***** up my sorrows,
I’ll be buried ‘fore
I’m old.

- S.G.

"Everything is funny
when you realize nothing
actually matters at all.”

So I’ll laugh as I
plunge my fingers
down my throat,

cut my veins open;
bleed myself dry,

a hollowed out
tree is the closest
I’ve ever been to

happy

and if nothing matters,
do I have any reason
to wish for better days?

- S.G.

I wish I could write for you,
I wish I could die for you,
I wish everything I said
Didn’t seem like I was
Lying to you.

- S.G.