I am made up of vile bones
Which I have learned to hate
I wish I could dig them out
from under my skin
Bury them deep within the earth
Plant flowers atop of them
Watch them grow into something, beautiful,
Something I will never become

Lest the gamers forget the petals doused with blood,
Slayers bequeath their chine.
The guidance of wisdom is deemed for crud,
The sparkle of existence lay bare on the line.
Mockingbirds lost their techniques,
Before dipping their feathers in grizzling red.
Their sentiments shut along their broken beaks,
Symphonies out of tune,
Recorded grünes are that of the dead.
Long lasted the gloom of winter,
As if protected by a permanent warrant.
The only bids are that of a sprinter,
Losing his soul for a bribe, or the steams of the first torrent
How loathsome becometh the living, in a world rotten and vile,
Even I don't guarantee forgiving
For that, I'll set my sail and be gone for a while

you want to run away,
you want to feel free,
feel wanted,
feel a sense of belonging.
you want to go somewhere that people won't judge you for the aching words you cry out at 3 am,
or forget about you simply because you find bliss in life's simplistic beauty.
you want to travel the world
and meet people who do too,
meet people who's smiles don't outmatch yours but instead make it brighter.
you want to feel like the most careless and careful person out there,
you want to feel like you matter,
feel like it doesn't matter if you don't.
you want someone,
anyone,
to decode some of the nonsense your messy brain paints pictures of
and maybe someone to splatter some of their own onto your canvas too.
you want to argue with someone in an aggresively calm way,
and you want to find someone to make you hurt so painlessly that it's beautiful.
you want to find and utilize every gift you were born with
and to take up useless hobbies that will make you feel alive.
but most of all,
you want to find someone,
something,
somewhere,
to help you rediscover what it feels like to not just exist
but to actually live.

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end.

On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog.

We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

I wrote on myself last night

I wrote the words

                                                          Vile

            Broken

                                                                                            *****

                                            Alone

                      Ugly

                                                                             Fat

                                                    Pale

     Stupid

                                                                                     ****

                              Inferior

                                                                                                            Lonely

                 Sad

                                                          Awkward

                          Weird

                                                                                        Worthless

I wrote them with sharpie

And then I took my pocket knife

Freshly sharpened

And I cut the words into my skin

I cut lines across my thighs

And I watched all the ink sink in

"They say that ink poisoning can **** you

Well, welcome death

To my body. To my temple."

That's what I said

Later, I got in the shower

And I scrubbed off the writing

I scrubbed until my flesh was raw

There was even a little more bleeding

I marked DAY 3 off the calendar

And I went to bed

This morning I woke up

I plastered a smile on my face

And prepared for the day

To see the only one who makes me happy

And keeps me sane

At least when he is around

Soon I'll go home and do like usual

I'll pull out the sharpies

And again I'll sharpen my pocket knife

I'll make a long list of words

And I'll repeat the night before

But tonight I might not cry as much

Even though the pain will be 10 times worse