The suffocating feeling, as the frayed hairs of the rope burns my skin. Thinking that I have taken my last breath. No struggle, no regret, no remorse, and worst of all... The feeling of fulfillment, the serenity of calming beatless peace. Sight, slowly becoming more and more blurry as it slips away. Speech, unable to scream or cry or even whisper, and accepting it. Silence, the overwhelming negative space that fills my ears with the unrelenting nothingness. Feeling, what was once numb, now pulsing, fighting a battle I have already given up on. Then, consciousness itself is lost in the limbo of mine own meaningless hell. Insanity has beaten down reason, and logic delivered the final fatal blow. No more struggle, no more feeling, no more reason. No more me. And good riddance.

Nothing French but somewhat sensual, surely can't be termed as just a show of friendship
I kept away cause it seemed he wanted more and his eyes spoke of desire buried deep that my smile might have unearthed.

It felt like regret, yearning and fragments of us we forgot to clean up had come to meet
It was a reunion of chaos, torn hearts we hadn't stitched up in time, unspoken feelings bordering on closure

As much as we craved closure, we resisted breaking the last straw and so we walked away from each other, leaving the doors ajar and throwing the keys away as we walked out..
09:15
r3d
18/1/16

You are my unfinished poetry.
The only poetry that I refuse to complete.

it’s 9:07 and you’re suffocating me

your sting;

there’s not much i can do,

i could write a million poems for you

we spent our lives singing songs

i fell in love in the backseat of my friend’s car

as the sound of your voice echoed over the radio

but when the world unleashed itself,

loving you was worse

so, i wrote your name 100 times,

i never want to forget how you dot your i’s and cross your t’s

take me to the woods,

we can carve out names into the trees

every time i look into your eyes i am reborn

i wish the tiny voices would stop, “i can’t love you anymore”

My mom yells at me because I never finish my cup of coffee
and I’m like mom,
I never finish anything.
Everything feels incomplete, slowly growing cold like the coffee
she made just for me
and I want to apologize to her.
I’m sorry I never finish what I wanted so badly in the first place.
It seems like I can only finish the things I don’t really want.
That six pack of beer, the hole in the wall, those red lines across my skin.
I finish the things that hurt to get them over with
and leave the things I love unfinished so I can always come back to them.
Pick up where I left off, know they’ll still be there,
waiting to be completed for when I’m ready.
Greeted with open arms and a kiss on the forehead;

“Its okay that you left, I’ve remained here for you to return.
I have not moved an inch.”

like whiskey burning your throat on a cold day
******* in the frigid air for a breath
just making an attempt to breath normal
feel normal
realizing that their words were the only thing that could sting
as harsh as this
maybe even more

There's an F on his forehead but it doesn't represent failure. It represents the Y chromosome his father didn't pass down but by some cruel twist of fate he so desperately need to be comfortable in his own **** skin. But this isn't about that. This is about that little girl you raised realizing that she was always meant to be a little boy but can't tell you because you'd kick him out regardless of how he'd plead for you to just understand so instead he hurts himself to let the feeling out. Dozens of little lines that relieve his pain for just a moment each but it is just enough to keep him going. And then he comes back to the constant fear and sometimes he can't take it so he buries himself in a reality where he can be who he is. The wrong pronouns that taste like acid on his tongue and sound like screams in his ears and just add salt to the wounds that he's given himself. He wants to tell you everything but you'd throw him to the dogs and watch as he was torn apart. So he filets his skin instead, and for sixteen years he's held it all in. Sixteen years of pain and suffering and not knowing and hurting. How many times does he need to bleed before I feel like he's had enough? How many times will he scream before someone comes to help? To save him? Because he might not be able to stand it much longer. I won't be able to.