explain to me why destruction is considered an art?
if i were you, i’d find a way to fight it.
as if destruction was an abstraction to describe to one’s self in a physical installation for all to see in a rarely visited gallery
we lock the doors because we are ashamed of the critics marking and making spiteful points as they leave red marks all over the walls
almost as if the surfaces were like a test paper without any attempt of answering or the tear and wear of the skin you bare

it was always war that we wouldn't label with a numeral to go down in the big books. instead, we whispered it under the sheets. we posted our thoughts on anonymous accounts that go hand in hand with a little lock sign in the corner. we used thunder in our words knowing that reaction that resulted resembled lightning.

as if a tattered canvas could make up for your bruised and battered soul

here’s my advice ; leave the doors unlocked just for a day, you might be surprised at what you find

She takes a seat
not saying much, she tries not to speak
because you'll smell the whiskey
Blacked out eyes of abused innocence
hides a tale of misery
There she sits, way to the right in the third row
as she tries to believe in a power that can save her from below
Her torn and worn jeans have seen many days,
So go on and judge them, the third row sinners
While she sits in a daze
She pulls at her sleeves, so no one will see
Her story carved into her skin of satin ivory
So she watches the preacher with curiosity
wondering if anyone can smell the whiskey
or see her story in ivory
She's a believer, that third row sinner.

He takes a seat
Masked in strength
wondering if you can see that he is weak
His hands shake, maybe from drugs
or maybe from pure anxiety, not just a tweak
There he sits, way to the left on the third row
praying that this isn't all just a show
His face is worn and hardened with sorrow
So go on and judge the third row sinners
While he fights for tomorrow
The visions won't leave him, the whispers
Yet he won't let anyone see his story, as it withers
So he watches the preacher, wondering
Can you guess his weakness
Can anyone see his illness
His story, in the silent stillness
He's a fighter, that third row sinner

I take a seat
My story not one of interest
But yet you judged me from when I walked in the entrance
I have wounds, many scars, and have sinned plenty
Yet it's none of your business, my story
Until I have laid it at your feet gently
In the middle of the third row, with her at my right, and him at my left
I ask you to not judge us, we third row sinners
For our stories will have an ending, just like yours
But many paths leave many doors
So open wisely, and maybe we will all choose the right one
to lead us home.

PSA: this is not a good poem, this is an explosion.*
pacing
internal dialogue echoing within my fatty brain, overweight from months of stagnant vegetation.
one repetitive sentence feebly attempts to remove the attackers
“go away go away go away go away”

running
linoleum floors squeaking as my slippered feet find their grip,
praying that these feet don’t lead me to a kitchen full of knives, hungry to meet the stretch marks striping my newly obese thighs.
i’d rather have scars than these purple proofs of my inadequacy

the familiar hair-band meets my forearm for the first time in an age,
my vegetated brain slowly recognises this pattern from once before and the skills from months of therapy begin to kick in
breathe in
breathe out

falling
wondering how on earth i will live for seven more weeks
desperate to make my voice heard
but stumbling into silence as my head slams the wall and bounces off the floor
leaving me stuck in my own harrowing mind,
one that is far too tired, lonely and ill to fight for much longer.

when did fine come to mean depressed, anxious, scared, suicidal, desperate, self-conscious?
when did we start to lie?

"I'm fine," she says, as her stomach gnaws away at her insides, growling for food

"I'm fine," he says, as he pulls the sleeves of his sweater down over his blood-stained wrists

"I'm fine," she says, after purging all of her dinner

"I'm fine," he says, when the anxiety gets so bad that he can't breathe right

"I'm fine," they say, as they write their last goodbye,
one last lie.

A shared dream
A silent scream

This is the New Day.

Open my eyes to a new day
But everything is the same.

The sky is still grey.
And no one knows my name

I hate the way your eyes used to twinkle
When I finally looked up at you from my books
I wish I had stuck to my plan;
    To pretend like I didn't care about you
I hate the way your hair was so soft
And I hate that stupid scruff,
It used to make me crumble in your hands
I hate the way your lips would quirk up
   on the left side first,
Then slowly on the right
I hate that I know how your lips feel
When they were against mine
or the way that you couldn't stop smiling long enough,
to meet the demands of my own mouth
I hate that I didn't hate that at all

I hate that the way you look at me now,
It isn't at all like the way you looked at me before;
Like I meant something,
like I was something you were determined to discover
And make your own
I hate that when you look at me now,
My face pales and tears immediately spring to my eyes
I hate that I used to have butterflies at the sight of you,
Now, it’s like the butterflies are there,
But they’re dead and make me want to hurl

I hate that when you see me,
Your face,
It’s like I physically punched you
   Again
I’d be lying if I said that I still didn't see the way your eyes get darker,
But it’s not like before, when they were happy
  So happy
Now, they darken with sadness and pity,
I’m sure there’s disappointment mixed in there,
But you and I both know, I run as soon as I see you,
And I’ll never get to see how far the disappointment goes
   Does it make your eyes flame like when you’re mad or make them dull like when you’re sad?

I hate that when you see me in the halls,
You stop
And I hate that I ruin your conversations just with my presence
I hate that you don’t look at me with anger
   Because that would be easy
I hate that I have to force myself to look at you with anger
I hate that you finally listened to me
    For once
You finally believed me when I said that I hated you

I hate the way that your side looks empty without me
I hate that I notice how you’re constantly looking around,
Like you used to for me,
  Because you know I don’t like crowds
I hate that I like to think that you’re looking for me,
And not just looking at your surroundings
I hate how I still order extra fries because you’d eat mine
  And the extras
I hate how you share that stupid smirk,
The one I thought was solely reserved for me,
And I’ll admit,
I miss how it’s not directed at me
And that I never get to hear your smart-*** remarks
   Ones that always left my cheeks red

I hate how your voice carries when you talk,
And how it could put babies to sleep or used for *******,
Depending on your mood
I hate that I have to force myself to walk in the opposite direction
When I hear you talking to someone else
I hate how our persistent bickering doesn't even exist anymore
I hate that my mother still asks about you

I hate how I hate myself when I see you talking to girls
  Talking to her
I hate that I don’t have the right to be jealous anymore
   If I ever did, for that matter

I hate that I’m writing this because I couldn't sleep
Because I kept remember when you’d chase me around your house
Because you wanted to “check my vitals and see if I had suspicious lumps”
I hate that I wrote this because it made me smile
I hate that I chopped off my long hair,
  Because you always told me you loved it
I hate that I left a permanent mark on your perfect face
I hate that you know what I did at my lowest times
I hate that you still check my wrists, even from across the room
I hate that I hit you
I hate how you've moved on,
  but you still look lost

I hate that I’m probably making all of this up in my head;
Imagining that you might not hate me,
Even when I see the way you look at her now
It’s not how I remember you looking at me,
But it’s different,
Because that was me and this is her
I hate that I hate her for being my replacement
   Even though I was never really there to qualify as yours
I hate that I hate so much now
   I used to be Switzerland
      Now I’m more like Idaho
       It’s known for one thing and no one really wants to be there

I get it though,
Why you hate me,
  After all, I told you to
But for some reason,
I can’t make myself forget you
   Because I hate you
I don’t know,
Maybe it was the way you looked, like I'd put the marks on you,
Or maybe it was the way I keep hearing your voice crack in my ear,
           Why did you do this to yourself?
Maybe it was because I woke up shaking
And you were there to hold my hand,
And offer coffee at 4:30 in the morning
It was probably the way a tear rolled down your cheek
And your eyes filled with something that looked like fear and horror

I hate that I keep telling myself all these things to hate about you,
Just to keep myself from banging on your door on nights like these,
And beg for your smile to be turned in my direction,
Just once more
But I can’t do that
Because I can’t promise that my lowest point in life is over
I can’t promise that there won’t be more marks to make you cry
I can’t promise anything
I hate that you didn't get mad at me for hitting you  
    Repeatedly
In my sleep
I hate that you lied and said it was from your brother
I hate that I did that;
   Made you do things that’s not you
     Like lying

Look at me,
I’m writing this,
And it’s the biggest lie I've ever told
I keep writing though,
Trying to put reason behind me pushing you away,
And I guess the reason is that you, not only deserve better,
But you need to be with someone who knows how to love
And doesn't hate hugs
Or someone who likes movies

I can’t take it;
Your eyes not shining
I can’t take that from you,
Because that’s you, and what people love about you
Not just the way your eyes shine,
But what that means
    That— that shine—lets everyone that’s seen it , know that you care
I don't have that,
My eyes have dimmed because of this ****** hand that I was dealt
     And that's okay
      I've accepted it, but I can't trade cards with you anymore

So I will continue to ignore you in the hallways
I will continue to tell myself to hate you
I will continue to tell my heart to stop playing dead,
    because it still works around you
And I will continue to pretend like I don’t know you’re staring at me
Because you should be looking at her
   She’s like you
   Her eyes shine too
     They shine for you

I hate myself for doing things to make you hate me too,
But I can’t love you
  I know she does

Tell your her that I’m sorry,
Because she told me that in the middle of the night,
You reach for her,
But you say my name
Tell her I’m sorry
I unwillingly made her second place
Tell her, that even though I want to rip her perfect hair out,
She’s perfect for someone like you
She's perfect like you

I am not for you
And I'm sorry
The butterflies in my stomach are dead,
and I'm folding
I give up
There's no point in trying to force myself to hate you,
because I don't
I am the polar opposite of hating you
I can't keep playing,
You know my poker face,
And I can't let you see my cards ever again
     Never again
I am not for you
And this card game isn't for me either
     -{ksf}

it is 9pm, so
i stride briskly to the bathroom
and brush my teeth.
the fibres are getting worn.
rinse, and gurgle, and rinse
again.
routine. i can live on
this repeat
one, two, three
strokes along my gum, then my teeth.
top row, bottom row, left side, right side,
inner top row, inner bottom row, inner left side, inner right side.
i rummage in the cabinets once i am done
at precisely five minutes past
for the blades and the medicinal alcohol.
dip, swab, cut.
routine. i can live on
this repeat
one, two, three
strokes on my person.
right forearm, left forearm, right thigh, left thigh.
the ballerina practices her pirouette
as i do with my suicide.
it is routine.
i can live.