“Overdose” - July 11, 2017

She lay on the cold concrete,
Dress lifted, head held down.
Her insides have gone numb
As innocence bleeds into the ground.

After it had been done,
He told her she better keep her mouth shut.
Told her it was “all her fault,”
Said she shouldn’t have dressed like a ****.

Then, she goes home,
Suffering all alone.
No one to listen, no one to care,
Nothing but the imprint of his menacing glare.

When will it end?
When will it end?

He stays awake at night,
Listening in on his father’s two o’clock rage.
Didn’t bother to wonder what it was this time,
Just another one of Daddy’s alcoholic haze.

In their brokenness,
The shadows don’t even come out anymore.
The walls surrounding are slowly crumbling
But it doesn’t surprise him anymore.

Love knows nothing but black eyes and bleeding hearts,
At least that’s what he’s come to know living in the dark.
The whispers say, “Escape while you still have the chance.”
If he did that, his mother’s blood would be on his hands.

When will it end?
When will it end?

In their brokenness,
The tears flow faster than they ever have before.
Something to take away the pain,
Something to end the internal war.

The flag of surrender sits on the table,
They’ll walk through the walls they built so high.
Maybe there’s a better home awaiting
In the wounded sky.

When will it end?
When will it end?

Every day, people suffer in silence
And we just watch them wither away.
We read their scars like words on paper
But never ask them what caused them pain.

Our fellow humans would rather die
Than “bother” us with what’s on their mind.
They would rather take away their life
Because we have closed our hearts to the outside.

So, I have a question for you, my friends.
This stigma that we haven’t yet changed,
*When will it end?

What goes on in my head?
The words start playing with themselves and I try
to make sense of the nonsense occupying what little space there is left.
It is so hard to explain what goes on, in, under, above, across
when all I want is a projectile through this skull.
Some nights, I'm as scared as you are.
The noise louder than panicking sirens as I cower
hoping it all stops
before it's too late,
before the worst
yet most relieving end.

But sometimes I grow as numb
as the people who think they know
a ******* thing
when they don't.
THEY DON'T.

3 AM is for studying ways to make death look like an accident
so I don't hurt anyone else after the process.
I cry my nonexistent heart and soul out
like I never do in broad daylight
while using neon highlighters
to mark exes on my throat, my wrists, my chest,
then put both blades out of reach.
I try to memorize the places where I shouldn't hurt myself.
But I am already bleeding everywhere.

I don't want to hurt anyone else.

No one wants scars around their hearts because the hurt doesn't count
unless you're dressed up for death in a hospital gown
so that everyone sees it,
so that everyone ******* believes it.

I'm not stupid
just sick.
But, if life is a lesson
I quit.

I feel like fading ink
gushing dry on my pile of unread books.
And maybe all those
record stores, libraries, museums, cafés, lighthouses
and sunsets waiting for me
won't wait any longer when I'm gone.

I don't want to hurt anyone else.

It's 3 AM again,
one day
I really am going to lose it.
But for the meantime,

I am tired.

I don't know how
long I could
keep fighting
this.

I don't want to hurt anyone else.

It's 3 AM again,
and again
and again
I'm sinking.

It's 3 AM again,
let the ghosts back in.

so he had my number because we met for tutoring on Wednesdays after class but he would text me really late at night asking me the weirdest stuff i would politely say this is incredibly inappropriate and i would not like to talk like this with you but still around two am he would text me lewd stuff again and again then asking if i would go on a date i said dude i am old enough to be your mother imagine if
a guy
          received texts
          like that
                    from a girl
                                  insisting to do ****** stuff BUT
he
would
have
liked
it.

I can't look at glossy things
The Sun is the purest star
Triste

Twisted
The Sun is blazing

Dazing and Gazing upon the lack of man
Oh, how I love the lack of man

I am a kaleidoscope, ever-changing
My mood goes from blue to red, blue to red
I flicker constantly among the only constant
Triste

Dazing and Fazing upon the lack of man,
Oh, how I miss the abundance of man

Music pours across the room,
Vibrating off the walls
I have a caged body, I long for something great, to make my life
a poetry book across wild and mild pages

Will this ever be?
When my kaleidoscope changes and flickers with each drop of rain
The black dog running after me,
I am half happiness, half a *****
Triste

Don't let it break your heart/Let it break your heart.

Giving up is the hardest part.

After long dark,
you can find me in my mind;
taming serpents; kissing girls.
You may not understand
why I've been the way I am.
You're under-educated
and that's only half your fault.

Sometimes I am imprisoned
within the waves of an ocean
that always misbehaves --
but it's not my fault; just the
way the god rolls: making halves
and making wholes.

After the short syrup of light,
you can find me hiding, true;
pulling off ticks; kissing boys.
You may not comprehend
the way I'm fumbled together.
You're under-educated
and that's only half your fault.

Always I am imprisoned
within the crash of culture;
my thoughts treated like worms;
my illnesses considered contrived.
But it's not my fault; just the
way you guys roll: ignoring halves
for conventional wholes.

don't you dare tell me about my pain
when you have never lived inside of my brain

I have been at war with my brain for as long as I can remember. A perpetual massacre, crimson annihilation, whatever sounds best bleeding from your tongue. No matter how many casualties you can find staining my fingers, there is no tragedy here. Words are what the carnage always leaves behind.
I have always had words, too many of them-- always left hiding behind my overbite in fear of crowding the world. It is a torturous thing, to be a writer in a world where people are not made of paper, where transparence is sacrificed for conversation.


I think in different shades of contradiction.
I want to talk to you but my brain keeps telling me to pretend my phone is ringing so I don’t have to talk to you anymore. There always seems to be an escape plan I cannot help but map out. I want to speak my mind, to watch my opinions soar into morning skies, but my brain gathers all of my words into paper boats drifting into shark-infested waters. I am full of synonyms and definitions, of pretty cursive words inked on skin. Perhaps it is hard to see this. I am, in fact, too busy picking my eyelashes out to realize that you are speaking to me. My heartbeats have cold feet when they try to serenade my thoughts.

Forgive me, for the paradox of my friendship. I am listening. It is just that sometimes, I am a telephone line with both ends in my hands.

People cheat for many different reasons
But almost none of them involve you

Being enough is not a factor
Listing the things that could be done
Differently is a waste of precious time
Because it truly wasn't you, it was them

Some do it for power, some do it for control
Some do it in loneliness, some do it in emptiness

Whatever the reason, remember it isn't you.
It is a mental compulsion, a temptation
That some otherwise extraordinary people
Fail to overcome, inhibit or control.

This isn't a justification, nor is this an excuse
I just want you to know these things
Are not because of you.

I am one
learning how to
carefully seal
myself shut;

still working on
the art of hiding
in less obvious spaces
that won't give me away,

folding myself
onto myself
like messy origami
forming no figure,

my pale skin
being tinted by sunlight,
my hollow cheeks
being surrounded by sunny faces

that have no idea
how much all I want
is for the rays to
melt these glaciers.

I tie my hair
with bright red ribbons
like I am a present
with no future, no past.

Might want to unwrap me
only to find a box
empty,
consumed.

I do not hold
anything

for you.

I cannot even hold
myself

for me.