You may call me a monster, a beast, demon
Saying that what I did just wasn't right
But it's an improvement, made with a sharpened blade.
You say I'm bad, maybe even a little mad
Truth be told, I don't know anymore.
Can I just say, you've got such a nice smile, like the one I used to have.
You see, it began to fade, so I gave myself a better one
Easily made with a sharpened blade.
I gripped my future tight between my finger and thumb
And quickly began cutting, but I guess I was already numb.
As the blade slashed my flesh, it reappeared, the smile came back!
You may think I'm foolish or maybe a little weird, but now my smile will never fade.
And I'll be here, waiting in the darkness, for you to call my name.

The title reads "Petite Redhead"
Pity it is content
With filth

A record recycling junk
Strums together a jingle
Echoing its own hollow verse

Triggers and pins
Always seem to accompany
The gun

The grip is soft
Side rail cold and beautiful
Like an old bottle of ***

My mind is sporadic
Seeking any conclusion
Requiring nonsense to fill the gap

Deceitful fingers
Lingering
Ready for digging

Her body still warm
Acting as a proxy pillow
The compromise of comfort

White to red
Crimson stains not withheld
A result of the rolling tide

Wrath of blood
Brought to fruition
And supplementation

To feel nothing
Is blissful and pure
Welcoming to heaven

The taker of life
Listening to a Redhead
No realistic sounds beneath

waiting for my dealer on the bridge
i open my second hand copy of American ******
for the first time in two years.
i forgot it opens with the gates of hell.
nihilism is seeping from the pages
just fueling my own drug addled reality
that doesn’t quite seem to mimic ‘real life.’
itake my meds twice a day but only
in the mornings do i get klonopin,
the best drug i’ve been on since
my Ativan privileges got revoked.
i used to do Xanax but that’s another poem.
Bateman does a lot of *******
but i’ve only done that once,
and it was just parental leftovers
so i don’t know about good
bathrooms to do coke in,
but i know about popping pills in front
of the mirrors, professors in the stalls,
before class, just to keep me going.
my suicidal intent has turned into hedonism
and i am living for pleasure and i find comfort
in knowing i will die, likely by my own hand
but even then, Bateman makes one thing clear:
This Is Not An Exit.

Even with the most gentle soul
The kindest

Even with the happiest life
The most envied

Even with all the dreams fulfilled
There still is a void

As it never was what’s outside that kills
But rather what’s inside

Within the sweetest face
Hides a ******
It kills whatever that is alive
And leaves you dead inside

You can never scream for help as
There is no helping
But to take it from within

So death sometimes
Is
the answer

it's nothing more than a photograph
with no context
no background
no story
no meaning
but still i can't stand to see your face
beside her
framed by her long hair
you look happy
it's painfully obvious
it's black and white

i feel demolished
you opened me up
and felt my insides
vulnerability spilling out like spaghetti
the quiet of the blade
you didn't sew me up correctly
if you patched me hardly at all

and what for?
years to kiss the pain away
and you dig it all from it's grave
you hand it to me
the backstabbing, numbing sensation
beating alive and well

i wish these walls were barren
so i could scream and scratch out the plaster
the white wash of concrete
spying on us making love
give it something else to look at

you can find me
ripping out strands of my hair
at 11:58 at night

Something inside my chest is creeping
A void of darkness that keeps me blinded.
As the fog covers my eyes I lose every drop of humanity
Without my humanity I'll lose my sanity
To maintain my sanity I indulge to ****** activities and found a *paradise in hell