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  Jan 2016 euphoria
your spirit wrapped it's hands around me,
cold fingers with chewed on nails brushing over my collarbones
"you are certainly worth getting to know better."
"you make me realize what I am worthy of becoming."
"you see the good beneath my bloodshot eyes."
demons do not scream
they do not possess children
they do not leave trails of black on your grandmother's white carpet
they kiss you
they lean in to your ear and tell you all the ways you two could be one day
"I want a house, and three girls,"
he would say, his hot breath filling my eardrums
"I'll be a pediatrician, so I can save lives,"
he would tell you, his hand on your thigh
"I'd never leave you,"
he would yell, in between thrusts between your red and gray sheets
it was all a trick
demons climb under your skin and lodge themselves beneath your bones
they seep their ethereal words into your bloodstream so that it can flow straight to you heart,
so that it'll be the first sound in the air when you take out your blades yet again, to release your demons into the atmosphere
they leave the taste of their secrets in your mouth so that they come to mind every time you speak
they break your heart and pour bleach into your eye sockets because if they don't want you then no one else should.
I remember how it felt
to sit on your bedroom floor
I see it in black and white blurs
there used to be color there
but it left with you
"you're the most intriguing girl I've seen in a long time,"
says the boy at the business conference,
he's trying to get you back to his hotel room
"you deserve so much more than this,"
whispers the baseball player,
he's trying to be polite
"I wrote you a song, since you remind me of music notes,"
tongues the musician,
he's trying to stop drinking
they're all trying
trying to be
so many demons without souls
one put his hat in my locker last fall,
he wanted me to wear it,
I didn't.
one put his arm around me last spring,
he wanted me to taste his lips,
I didn't.
one put his sketchbook in my hands last winter,
he wanted me to realize I was art,
I didn't.
but sometimes you miss demons
one left me because
I wasn't loving enough
one left me because
I wasn't slutty enough
one left me because
I wasn't confident enough
I was
closed off
with closed legs
and closed lips
I missed his smile
but he missed my body
I missed his hands
and he missed where his hands went
I missed his eyes
and he missed my bed
  Jan 2016 euphoria
and for some crazy reason, I'm crying in this synagogue parking lot at 6am
I needed to believe in God again
because I couldn't believe in you anymore
but every Christian church I go to screams your name and I can't stay there
all I can think at a Catholic Church is how you loved God forever
maybe that hurts because you didn't love me even for a second
my face is like a waterfall and now I'm banging on the door
who thought to have preachers ready for confession twenty-four hours a day?
I want to thank them
this isn't like the church I go to
he brings me into his office, a coffee mug in the corner of his desk
it makes me nervous that it might tip and spill, maybe shatter all over the floor
I'm always afraid of things shattering
he asks me if I'm alright
and I ask for the Bible
I turn to the page about love,
soulmates and pain and betrayal
and I rip it out, right in front of him
I tear it and I tear it and I tear it
until I'm in tears again
he looks at me like I sinned
I tell him I did
I wronged God
I wronged the world
I hurt someone
and it was me
I hurt myself
he hurt me, the boy with bright eyes
and I've been destroying myself ever since
and now I feel like if I scream your name loud enough maybe God will hear me and
fix it,
fix us
fix everything
he's looking at my like I'm insane
am I insane?
you always said everyone was insane
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve
I don't remember our state being this cold
maybe I'm only freezing in your absence
this thought makes me laugh a little
the preacher has wide eyes now
"are you okay?"
"are you sure?"
"are you hurt?"
"God is here"
"God can help you"
"God can be your constant"
God, God, God
where was he then?
where were you then?
you told me when we were thirteen,
that you would be here for me always
so why is it,
that three years later,
I'm dying and you're living?
the man with bags under his eyes,
and a picture of his family on his desk,
picks up his phone
probably to call the cops
or maybe call my mother
or maybe call my grandmother
when's the last time I called her?
it's only the middle of October
I called her on her birthday
in September  
I can't even remember the day
I can't even remember her face
I can't even remember my own face
he's dialing
the old man is dialing the police, I think
to come catch the crazy girl
"she's intoxicated," he says
"high," he claims
"on coke," he states
"no," I whisper
"I'm not high"
"I'm not on drugs"
"I'm not filled with alcohol"
"I'm just heartbroken"
and now I'm laughing again
like you used to every night under the stars
I jump up so fast that the coffee crashes,
straight onto the hardwood floor
I don't even see it, I only hear it
I'm out the door
stumbling onto new mistakes
your house is just around the corner, isn't it?
I remember your mom's pasta
I remember your blue bedroom walls
I remember your two dogs who loved me
I could walk there right now
what's stopping me?
on the way to where you've lived all your life
but there's a homeless man
on the side of the street
and now he's breathing alcohol into my face
"they'll come for you"
"they'll break you"
"they'll destroy you"
too late, right?
I destroyed myself
"what happened to you", I ask
he smiles, missing two teeth
his eyes are the horrible kind of sad
"I broke inside"
and now my eyes won't stop flooding like when Jesus made it rain for 40 days
"me too"
  Jan 2016 euphoria
they'll tell my story someday about the pretty little blonde thing that fell too ******* a hot sidewalk that burned her eye sockets out
they'll talk about the blue eyed gem that wasted her life away and ruined that pretty little heart of hers because of a silly boy
they will relish in the memory of a sing-song soul who let a green eyed demon eat her from the inside out until she was only a shell
they will take peace in the fact that heartbreak is universal and her skin is under his ***** fingernails, screaming to be free
they will whisper the poetry of her demise and of the hospital bed she sat at when he tried to die, and how they turned off her life support in the same sterile bed
they will scream out the truth of the falling out and how all the candles melted into her heart and she can't even feel anything now
they can cry and fail to understand why she let his snake skinned lips silence her free will but even she can't explain it
  Jan 2016 euphoria
the day after his cousin died, he stuck his hand onto the hot frying pan when his mother wasn’t looking. she cried rivers all the way to the emergency room and the only thing he could say when she asked why he did it is “I touched her last. I touched her last”
the doctor came into the sterile room and said he lost three out of five fingerprints on his right hand, but he would be okay and so would his shaking mother. the boy had hugged his bright-eyed cousin before she shot herself and I think the bullet hit him too
let’s not tiptoe around coffee-stained details, that boy didn’t grow up to be an inspirational anti-suicide activist. he put up defense mechanisms and lined his entire body with barbed wire, and he’s been piercing people with his touch ever since
truth be told, I loved that burn marked boy, I did
but he threw me to the wolves when I got too close and maybe he felt guilty about sending me to the bottomless darkness he lived in or maybe he still can’t forget the way his cousin kissed him on the cheek before she put ammunition to her head, but I saw him at the gun store on the corner two weeks ago
it still hasn’t sunk in that he followed the exact path his cousin did that destroyed him when she was seventeen and he was only ten. he walked in her blood-traced footsteps all the way to the end of his existence, didn’t he?
he bought the gun, he loaded it
he probably started a note
do you think he started a note?
how many times do you think he’s tried to write it in the past seven years, broken pencil ends and the smell of tired lead
how many times do you think he tried to write it on Sunday? Sunday is God’s day, right? that’s what he always says to me
it’s a past tense
that’s what he always said.
I wonder how many pieces of notebook paper he crumbled up before he decided that his final words weren’t good enough to be seen by the people he was leaving alone on Earth
he always said he wanted to fly and I wonder if they can fly up there like all of the stories say when they talk about angels and I wonder if he can actually fly now
I wish that I could see those scribbled lines on discarded pieces of paper just so I could know why he did it
but maybe I’m lying to myself
maybe I already know why he did it
I knew it the day he said he couldn’t take it
the day everyone told him to stop being so overdramatic and grow up and be a man
I remember the exclamation points at the ends of his sentences like lines and flashing lights that screamed “help me”
the days his smile would say everything’s okay but his eyes looked like he was already dead
I wonder what his eyes will look like now
I wonder if he’ll still be the simple kind of beautiful when he’s in a coffin
what do you think his mother will pick out?
she always loved that red shirt
but he hates it
he likes blue
he liked blue
he liked a lot of things
he liked running and baseball and 3am movies and math and sometimes English and never science and most of all, he liked self destruction
I wonder if he gets to see her, if there is an afterlife like all of the Christian books he studied tell of
I wonder if she would tell him that there was never anything he could have done to save her back then
I wonder if he would regret letting himself float away that night
I wonder,
was there anything I could have done to save him?
why didn’t I?
I saw it
I saw the scars that were a little newer than the ones I had memorized before
I saw the sadness in his eyes on Friday
why didn’t I do anything?
but…I did
I asked
I asked him if he was okay
“I’m fine”
“I’m great”
“I’m happier than i’ve ever been. It’s okay. I promise. I’ll never go back to that bad place. I just have to keep my head up and keep going, I’m amazing lately”
false truths
lying through his teeth
I always know when he lies because his smile gets a little too wide, too artificial, and he can’t look me in the eyes unless he’s telling the truth
but he’s never going to look me in the eyes again
do you think it hurt?
do you think it was instant?
I wonder if the hurt made him happy like it used to when he scratched lines into his skin and ran until he collapsed
I don’t know if it actually made him happy
he thinks he deserves the pain he inflicts on himself
a sadistic self destruction is what he thinks he deserves
is it thought?
this hurts
turning every present tense into a past tense feels like someone stabbed me in the chest
or maybe even shot me
how funny is that?
not at all
maybe a little ironic
the police will investigate the blood stains on the hardwood floor his father installed back when he was half sober and they’ll write down every scuff they see and they’ll have a sketch artist draw the green eyed boy who offed himself
he’s just a statistic to them
just another case
just another rotting body that they get paid to sign a death certificate for
they don’t know him
they don’t know where his scars came from
they don’t know that his dad gets angry when he drinks, and he drinks a lot
they don’t know his little brother
they don’t know what style he writes his paragraphs in
they don’t know him at all
he’s so much more than just a casualty
a casualty to suicide
another number that the hotlines can use to try to get money to save teens with razor blades and sad thoughts
another percentage
how would he feel about this?
he loved math
he was good at it
how would he feel about being another tick mark on some scientific research paper about the risks of drugs and alcohol and falling in love and teenage suicide deaths
falling in love
did I fall in love?
can you be in love with someone who is dead?
someone whose heart has stopped beating
maybe his heart stopped beating a long time ago
right with his cousin’s
did I mention that I saw him Saturday?
he was in the batting cage when I took my sister to the park right beside it
we talked and he said he was great
but I watched the news today
the news, can you believe that?
I only watched it because I had a terrible feeling in my stomach as soon as I woke up early Sunday morning
it’s Tuesday now and the police issued a report and my mother brought your mother a casserole and a bottle of wine
the police told us what happened with blank stares into the TV cameras
you died early Sunday morning
in the middle of the night
you always loved 3AM things
I saw you at 7 that night at those batting cages
I asked you what was wrong
you said you were okay
I knew you were lying and you were bleeding internally and I was scared you would fall into pieces of skin and broken boy right before my eyes
I put my hand on your shoulder and asked again
you didn’t look me in the eyes
you never did
you never will now
never again
you said you were so happy
your eyes pleaded for help, didn’t they?
I hugged you
it seems like a dream now
I hugged you and told you to stay safe
and then I left you alone in that batting cage
and I had no idea you were still planning your demise
more police reports
the news is informative
that’s what my grandpa always says
your parents were out of town
your parents were at a family reunion a state away
one you didn’t want to go to
phone records show that you didn’t call anyone after 10AM on Saturday, the robot officers in blue repeat
oh my God
I’m not supposed to use the Lord’s name in vain, that’s what you always said
that’s what your cousin taught you when you were eight
but you aren’t here anymore to correct me
I’m watching the news with shaking hands and I think I might break into sad molecules right here
because I know my bad feeling was right
the pit in my stomach wasn’t lying
I did it
I held the broken boy before he shot himself in the head because he wanted to be sure that this time he would actually die, unlike the time he slit his wrists on his bedroom floor
it’s true,
I touched him last
  Jan 2016 euphoria
you were just a baseball player with green eyes who went to church on Sunday but the thing is that you don't know from the beginning who is important in your life and who will just be a background character. you stole my heart on a Friday and tore it to pieces on a Saturday only to arrive at church bright and early on Sunday morning with a new ******* your arm. you'd give her a silver cross necklace and a hand to hold and tell her that you had never taken anyone to church before even though my pink flower earring is still under the third pew. you would take her to the abandoned park across the street after the service and spill to her the sob story that is your childhood until you have her almost in tears for you. then after her pity for your sadness is planted in her mind like a poison, you'll tell her it's okay and you're fine and you'll lean in real close, so close that she can smell the cologne that you got for Christmas last year. you'll whisper in her vulnerable ears that there has never been anyone like her and that if she can just save her soul from the evil people of the world, society will be blessed with it one day. you will tell her tales of girls with fangs for teeth who tore out your heart valves and of parents with strong hands and angry words. her eyes will grow wide as you spin the paragraphs with memories of lonely and dark nights where you almost jumped off of that ledge your mind put you on. then you'll lean away from that young girl's ear and you'll look in her eyes and tell her that you didn't jump and you're okay and it's okay. but it's not, is it? that's what she thinks, and you know it. you seem vulnerable, but strong and brave to defend her from all of the toxic waste the world holds. but what this girl, with bright blue eyes and a soul with barely any scratches doesn't understand, is that you are the demons you talk about. maybe once upon a time, in another world, on another street, you were a normal little boy with big dreams and a lunchbox your mother left notes in. but somehow that little boy went away and was replaced by the shadows that lingered under his bed and in the corners of his room painted in blue. the boy with the hot wheels cars turned into a heartbreaker in a baseball cap that didn't care about anybody but the person he saw in the mirror. you'll tell her that her dress looks pretty and you'll go on and on about pointless little things that will make her fall for you. your tongue will wind around syllables that tell her about how you love kids and your favorite food is Oreos and you hit your first home run when you were five. her eyes will see hearts and her innocent little heart will break into pieces for the boy she thinks you are. her clean and new soul will now have cracks and bruises, but it's okay, because she thinks you'll actually stick around long enough to help her heal them. her mind will listen to your heartbreak stories as you sit in the sand of that old park, and she'll mess with that necklace because she realizes that all of these girls who tore you apart are prettier than she thinks she'll ever be. but you already know this. you planned on it. picking out the nicest and most self secure girl with big doe eyes and watching her break down piece by piece, as she continues to think you're a god. it's a game and you always win, no matter what the cards are. this girl will go home and wonder about you and stress herself inside out trying to think of how she can fix the boy with the hole in his heart as you load your gun to put bullets in hers. you'll talk to her all night with sugar on your lips about your favorite constellations and you'll slip in that you ran away once, mentioning it for long enough that she feels your pain, but for such a short second, that she feels shut out. you'll shriek into the receiver in the middle of the night telling her that someone broke into your house to crush your essence but you'll lock all of the doors and windows before she even gets to your gravel road. go ahead and repeat your patterns so that I can sit from the sidelines as it passes by like clouds on a stormy day. show her that you're bleeding inside and your lungs have been punctured and bandage them the next day as if it never happened at all just so she feels the right amount of hopeless. give her the key to everything you've ever been and will be but change the locks the day after. whisper names of loved ones you've lost and tell her of your past as her lips brush yours and make her feel everything you hold like an anchor dragging her down. show her the trees you climbed as a child only to finish by mentioning that you broke your leg in the fall from it's branches. kiss her in September and drop her October because things like that are easy. she'll sit in her room at night six months later wondering why she never passed the test and why someone so sweet would throw her away like that. she'll spin your phrases and quotes in her mind instead of sleeping until she's utterly convinced that it was entirely her fault. she'll write in her notebooks about the perfection that is you and the disaster of her that ruined any chances she had. every time you pass by she will be absolutely tortured with the want to run up to you and scream until all of her organs fail. maybe after a year, she'll finally get you sat in front of her again on a cafeteria stage and you'll spit up every blood soaked lie you can manage. apologies and random nothings will climb up your throat like parasites, leaking into her and latching onto her bone marrow until they drain her dry. she'll laugh with you once again and it'll feel like heaven to her when it's really all a dysfunctional daydream, and as soon as you leave, so will the color from her cheeks. maybe eight months after that she'll start to forget that you ever existed, and she'll finally be able to see dugouts the same way again. but you can sense it. like an animal that can smell fear miles away, you'll come right back and only stay long enough for her to question everything she knows again, then you'll vanish. you can't handle not being in someone's nightmares and dreams, it feeds the fire where your heart was supposed to be. from now on, she always fixes her makeup to try to look like those girls you used to talk about. she always tapes her eyelids shut at night so that maybe she won't see your face. no one with green eyes will look exactly the same, and she hasn't attended a baseball game without thinking of you. her hair will always be brushed, covering her ears so that no one can whisper any lies into her thoughts. but it's all her fault, because after all, you were just a baseball player with green eyes who went to church on Sunday.
euphoria Dec 2015
what did we do?
where did we go wrong?
god, why did you let me throw it all away?
why didn't you stop me before it was too late?

why didn't i realize i was a fool before i lost the one thing that actually mattered? why didn't i stop and try to figure out how to love myself before trying to love someone else? why didn't i stop in the midst of the passion to ask myself what kind of person i was? why didn't i realize what this was doing to her before it was too late?

but she's gone now and i've lost the one thing that can't be bought. i've lost the one thing that can't be sold, that can't be found in the supermarket.

i've lost my spirit. she has it now and i'm not sure i want it back. because a spirit lost is a spirit changed and skewed and i'm scared to look at my naked spirit again. i'm scared of what i'll find, missing and scattered, tattered and torn amist this jar of hearts.

i've caught a cold from the ice inside my spirit and she's gone. she doesn't want me anymore. she doesn't even want my spirit but she doesn't have a choice, does she? once heartbroken, always heartbroken and the one who broke a spirit can't fix it, or so the story goes.
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