Call me your queen, say the stars shine for me, and kiss me like it's been forever since our bodies met (but it's been never ever ever) and keep me on your mind at midnight, six in the morning, how about forever? And you and I, we'll live forever on that tree, on your skin (or did you grow the courage to remove us from your forearm?) and in these scars on my fragile heart. You and I are that star, remember? 10 to the left and 2 up, for our shared birthday. You and I live in those time stained, ripping, beautiful papers where we spoke of dreams and I confessed about my visions of dying and how then people would really see me, and you said baby, they already have, we were so young but now those papers are so old. And you and I, you and I are forever but never ever ever.

r.c.

The scars will not go away.
They will itch.
Your scars will feel like someone is grinding glass in them.
The numb parts will stay numb.
They hurt to touch.
Shaving will never be the same.
Your fingers won't work properly.
The ones you didn’t take care of get worse. Skin sags.
The scars will not go away.
Deep cuts leak.
First-aid supplies are really expensive.
The scars will not go away.
Kids will ask what happened.
People will stare.
Employers will ask if you’re mentally stable enough to hold a job.
They will get sunburnt, and stand out more.
They define every outfit you choose to wear for the rest of your life.
They are the reason *** with the lights off is the only *** you’ll ever have.
The scars will not go away.
You never get used to seeing them,
But you never forget they are there.
People touch you and you flinch. Don’t touch me there, there, there or there.
You will feel disgusting, disgusting, disgusting for the rest of your life.
The scars do not go away.
They do not go away.
They will not go away.

Sitting on the bathroom floor with a gun in your hand
Knees pulled up to your chest
Your head rests on your knees
Your shoulders shaking cause you're laughing and crying
Gun to the side of your head
"Are you gonna do it?"
Find the sweet release when the bullet leaves the barrel of the gun and enters your brain

Click

The gun's empty
I am not dying
The gun's unloaded
I do this every time
Never strong enough to take the bullet
And never strong enough to let anyone see me like this
Always weak enough to be messed up like this
*Always thinking, always wishing I put a bullet in

Today my feet did not want to touch the ground
My face did not want to break away from my pillow,
My body did not want to move from its embrace with the mattress.
Tomorrow doesn't look good for the floor either.

Today I want to sleep for a very long time,
I don't want to have to wake up until I'm really not tired,
I don't want to have to face another day of fatigue.
Tomorrow doesn't look good for being awake either.

Today I don't want to eat anything,
I don't want to drink,
I don't want to have to wake up my digestive system.
Tomorrow doesn't look good for my stomach either.

Today I'm not feeling up to changing,
I don't want to wear my outdoor clothes,
I don't want to tie my shoe laces.
Tomorrow doesn't look good for my wardrobe either.

Today I want to be depressed,
I want to lie in bed and wallow,
I want to feel sorry for myself because I am not important.
Tomorrow doesn't look good for feeling good either.

Today I don't want to be me,
I don't want to ever be me again,
I won't want to have to look in the mirror.
Tomorrow doesn't look good for my reflection either.

I can taste the licks of flame in my mind,
Just barely; I cry. The sour flavour corrodes
My tongue, telling me I can't continue
To suffer the wrath. The scent kills me,
And I continue to defy what is constantly
Whispered in my fragile ears.
The sound of the bitter cackling of demons
Burns the wings of butterflies that inhabited
My entire body. The smoke from the charred,
Powder-white wings of moths,
Parasites, kiss the scares and open them again.
The desire to feel the pain consumes the spindly legs
Of butterflies trying to escape, nearly dead
By fire caused by my own hands.
My fingers shake, I am cold.
But my messages are not clear anymore.
I am no butterfly on fire.
They are all dead.

i started a collection inside of my ribcage
of birds that tickled me pink and red and
eventually blue. i lost enough blood to call
it a suicide from withholding harmless
animals so tightly in a confined space that
there was only one way out. after that mishap,
i started growing flowers and writing endless
metaphors about you, describing how you
make the stars dim out in embarrassment of
itself and how benign your disposition was.
you wonder why i watched the flowers wilt
and why i wanted the stars to ultimately turn
the sky into a deep asphalt color. you wonder
why i couldn't breathe when i tried my hardest
to be on your good side whenever you were at
the top of the food chain and i was below you.
looking at you made me see why i forgot to
take care of myself, because all of my focus
was trying to connect the dots of our friendship
and bring peace between us again. my words,
shaped into metaphors, turned into dust after
i burned every evidence of you. i am tired of
waking up in a hospital after a failed attempt
to completely forget you for good.

The grass was tall
enough to hide me
from anyone

and I wrapped myself
up in it's long blades,
braiding them into
my hair, softly
tickling my skin

pulling daisies down to
the roots, my fingernails
shining with silver polish,
teasing magpies as
I dig

down into the earth,
turning up memories
and moments in the
chaos of soil

the past and present
mingling on my skin
as I dig, deeper,
greedily

listening to the scattered
songs of birds and
imagining how
I look to them

small and frantic

but strangely, I am not

I am calm, calmer

and the smell of buttercups
reminds me of childhood
games, of holding flowers
under chins, teasing
and tripping

moments, memories

pockets in time that the
voices haven't reached
and I relish them

counting them on
my fingers

as they play

and then, there are noises,
shouts, doors banging
and windows shaking

fingers clawing at
my throat and
yelling

spit

bloodstains on the cuffs
of my dress

and sirens