Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ameliorate Mar 22
Curdled cream and three separate drafts of a memory I can't quite pen properly.
Disappointment inbound, pouring the first cup of freshly brewed coffee down the drain.
Had I checked the date this wouldn't have been a waste of $4; but a solemn reminder of analogies leaping from my brain.
Cycle of sleeping all day to lie awake during the nighttime, overthinking. Curtains of feeling bad about inability to wake normally, darkness of the evening encompassed I finally pull myself out of the bed.
Despite this current pattern, last winter undoubtedly worse with feelings of self destruction and loathing.
For currently I do not cry every waking hour, just wish I was different with no apparent response to change.
Cats continue to be stricken with yet another upper respiratory response to declined immune system of an exotic breed.
Lost debit card, jobless flounder.
No appetite or desire to binge eat for the first day of my existence.
Headlight reflections crawl across the ceiling and I'm suddenly five years old again, afraid of almost everything.
Summer evenings when the whipper-well called out haunting symphony of their nighttime songs.
I never quite believed they were birds, moreover monsters and I never heard those calls other than childhood.
My father outside, and I in the grass.
Childhood wonder as he climbed a ladder to retrieve me a piece of the moon.
Wide eyed awe at this miraculous feat, my father could reach the moon.
Unnoticed by young eyes, the moons sphere just out of reach by trillions of lightyears.
A rock plucked off the driveway.
He must've been proud of his farce, my bewilderment and excitement beaming.
I love you.
Twenty five years later, a memory I haven't connected to in decades.
Perhaps the next time I look to the man in the moon, I'll see your face etched softly on the surface.
That radiating glow reminding me things will be alright.
It's been an odd winter, my heart is cooled more than our weather as of late.
Somewhere through the forests of Sandilands Provincial forest a deer crunches across the snow.
Silence, except for its breath, a softness.
Trees encompass, nurture and protect.
You are home.
I wrote this a month after the suicide of my father.
Heather Apr 2019
Take my hand she says
But even if I remembered how, I couldn’t
For all my hands feel
Are the tingling painful absence of yours
kellie anderson Apr 2017
the first time i met suicide, i was alarmed at how smooth his voice was
the loudness of a fire alarm and the softness of a mother whispering to a child
all at once
it was exhilarating
and in my mind it played constantly
i was unable to shut him out because i craved the way his voice touched me.
it had a body of its own and i crushed beneath its arms
the way suicide said my name made it feel unspoken
and he twisted his words, tugging and pulling
until there was nothing left i could do to untangle myself from within them
he made even the word death seem stunning

and his hands
they grasped my neck like a noose and took my breath away
his fingers grazed over my scars and made them feel lovely
the more i created, a small blade grazing against my inner thigh,
the more suicide fell in love with me
and deeper and deeper he fell
his strong hands held no calluses yet they weakened every time he hit me.
he painted me in light purples and deep reds.
i let him work wonders out of me.
and when he led me into the water to cleanse me,
our intertwined hands fell perfectly in place and i couldn't let go,
allowing the water to drench every inch of me.

each time i faced suicide,
he came up with different ways to convince me
that my life was something that needed to be destroyed
as if i was at a winning war with it; a nuclear bomb ticking away, seconds from explosion

he lit my mind on fire and burned thoughts into my skull.
he made my mind work backwards.
as if pills were the most delicious candy.
as if a noose was an expensive, fragile necklace.
as if my clothes could only be worn with thick bloodstains

the last time i met with suicide,
i gazed into his light green eyes
and he put me to sleep with his alluring voice
as i held his hand tightly at my resting heart.
and i loved
of it.
cartel Sep 2015
Stop going back to him my dear
He can't mend your bones
He won't treat you well my dear
He'll leave you all alone

Love isn't an excuse to get hurt my dear
Your mom was always right
Don't give him all you have my dear
You need to put up a fight

Don't let him yell at you my dear
It's not because your wrong
Does he really love you my dear?
Does he know your favourite song?

Stop going back to him
He can't mend your bones
He can't fix your heart
He'll leave you alone
You can't be fixed by the same person who broke you my dear

But you are not broken, my dear
Kendall Rose Feb 2015
You used to be the golden sun and lingering kisses.
But now you're the reason thorns grow around my heart
and the reason my poetry is filled with metaphors for heartbreak.

— The End —