Hunter S Thompson held hands with death
The bony fingers wrapped over his own
Resting on the trigger of a gun pressed to his head
Bang: blood went everywhere
Found by his son with dead eyes and cold to the touch

Sylvia Plath laid her head on deaths lap
Inside of an oven with the gas turned on
She took deep breaths and starved for oxygen
Carbon monoxide filled her lungs
Found by a nurse with blue lips and a still chest

David Foster Wallace reached up to kiss the lips of death
A rope worn as a necklace
He let his body hang as his face turned blue
Found on his patio with a broken neck and a broken heart

I too am a writer and they are scared for me to reach for death
I long for their embrace as a razor across my wrists
Writers are always torn apart trying to be too many people at once
So let them find me without a spark of life or an ounce of blood left inside

the only funeral i've ever been to was my great-grandmother's. it was alabama in june. i was young, maybe 8 or 9, wearing a church dress and watching strangers offer me comfort and candy.
when the viewing was happening, my oldest sister took us outside and told us stories of mama. how she fled from the phillipines during WWII with a five-year old kid and a dead husband. it felt like a made up story then. still does sometimes.
my father gave a eulogy at the grave sight. he compared my great-grandmother to a magnolia tree. how southern. we prayed. then we ate.
i remember my grandfather crying. sobbing. openly expressing his grief. i remember the look on his face. like it was all over. like existing hurt now that his mother was gone.

that funeral has never ended for me.
i still feel the humidity in my head.
the mourners, unaffected, continuing
staring down into the ditch where she lays
empty condolences from faceless relatives
overlap each other until they are only mumbles
an ongoing buzz of misery.
and when the bells toll, it isn't space
it is the ground in which the box lies
a perpetual reminder that i will join her soon.
grey matter the soil, nerves the worms, and i
the ditch digger. searching for my great-grandmother's
pearls, her soul, my soul.

that funeral has never ended for me.
and when the plank in reason breaks
the worlds i hit will be those of knives
and monsters and crucifixes nailed to
the walls of my childhood bedroom.
shadows envelop me further,
anonymous lovers will invite me to believe
that i have finished knowing yet
i am no where ******* close.
my great-grandmother's shaky hands
will try to catch me as i'm dropping down
but no luck. i will keep falling
until every single person who has
broken my heart and whispered truths into
my skull has ripped every inch of skin
off my body while the mourners watch from
above. i will keep falling as long as this
funeral continues. as long as my life continues.

we named the magnolia tree in our front yard after her. Mama's magnolia. when it blooms, my grandfather comes over and stares at it for a long time. like i, he and silence have wrecked.
solitary. here.

I have a scar on my right hand, directly below my ******* knuckle.
It is from my teeth digging into my skin while I shoved my fingers down my throat.
It is from me trying to rid myself of hate,
To rid myself of ugly.
To rid myself of the thought that, "I am not worthy if I am fat".

It has been exactly 1 year and 3 months since I last forced myself to *****.
And I can tell.
I can see every single calorie that was not purged,
Every single pound that my body has held on to,
And every single ***** look in the mirror.

But for some reason, you don't see that.
You undress me and you call me beautiful.
It makes me want to *****.
You touch me and i flinch.
You tell me you love me and I ask how?

The only time I feel worthy is when I'm gagging into a toilet bowl with swollen eyes.

the heat in the pit of my stomach
is so familiar,
tears run down my cheeks
when I try to suppress it

water is gasoline
and i'm steady drinking it.

my necklace is noose,
i'm waiting to slip.

my bracelets as razors,
pressed up against me.

cigarettes as car exhaust
when i watch it fill the dead air,
i breathe deeper.

and i stop all together.
there was something about
feeling close to death.

i search for that feeling on the edge of tall buildings.

and i'm always on the edge.

your warm breath against
my skin
your fingers tracing my ******* roughly

one of your hands move
lower
intruding my space

this is not right
i do not want you here
i do not want you in my body

i say nothing
hoping you would read my mind
take a hint from my pleading eyes

my insides curl
as you take away my innocence

i am no longer myself
who i am...
is you

I.

There are parts of this story
Written for me only
Chapters not to be read aloud,

II.

The tears on the pillow
Moonlight illuminating the dew
Silent cries in the quiet hours

III.

The endless screams
Muted to the world
But piercing and agonising in my head

IV.

Blood in the bathtub
Blades hidden 3rd drawer down
Scars decades old that no one has ever seen

V.

All of these small chapters;
The little hidden tragedies
Of my short, bright life

Deep down, 50 feet underwater
down, down
in the depths of the water did your brother drown

And did you cry for him? did you mourn his loss?
watching your momma take a needle to arm if only to forget

Knowing that she lays on her back to pay the bills
son, where is your father?

Your tears became scars, your hurt became claws

And there you are tearing my apart, ripped at the seams
places I can't be touched, they can't see

I didnt mean to let you in,
I didn't know better

Too young to understand,
looks too grown for her own good

Oh dear boy you have a beast in your heart

Ripped my skin apart, but have no evidence to prove it
beyond it all, you had already won

You didnt need to **** me, and you didnt
you didnt need to touch me, oh but you did

Oh, you have a beast in your heart
poor boy, a beast in your heart