i met my soul mate last night
he introduced himself as the perfect mix of drunk and high
a crumpled cigarette hung loosely between his lips 
as he intoxicatedly fingered his lighter
i gently replaced his hands with my own
lighting the cigarette with the flick of my thumb
"a beautiful girl who lights my cigarettes?
 they said death would come slow 
 but they didn't say it would come
 with you."

i smoke hundreds
and let the ash build up
and pretend i’m a french movie star.
i like the way the smoke feels;
rough, grating, and heavy.
sam says it’s because i like to hurt myself.
sam’s right about most things.
she says i’m more like my dad then i realize
which is a scary thought
but i’ve noticed more similarities
and i just hope i’m not as angry
unless it’s useful
but i know i am.
i snap and spark and set fire
to everything that slightly annoys me
if i’m in a mood.
i’m always in some kind of mood
because if it’s not one thing
it’s another. if it’s not
drugs then it’s food
and if it’s not food then it’s cutting
and if it’s not cutting - well
i think that should suffice.
but i know my dad
and he smokes a lot
but i think i smoke more.
i’m never sober.
he only partakes at night.
i know my dad
but i don’t know myself
so sam may be right
but i’m deaf unless you’re complimenting me.

Tonight the ceiling fan
clicks with every turn.

The bedside clock ticks
and tocks in moonglow.

I close my eyes
and one by one
the light bulbs in
the house explode.

The darkness
becomes me,
I think.

I wear it silky black,
a spider-tailored suit
imponderous as ether.

I focus on the anesthetic sound
of a future breathing inside me.

Memory folds like
an obsolete map—

a distant archipelago
of diminishing stars.

Years ago, I’m sure,
we married in a copse
blue with wild hyacinth.

Tonight the satellites
cut like diamond tips,

lugubrious orbits etching
across a bedroom window.

Dawn always blooms with
the sound of breaking glass.

"can we pretend that this never happened? can we pretend that the photo's on my phone, the pictures on the wall, the poems in my book the endless number of calls, the days out, the days in, the days somewhere inbetween, the nights, the lessons taught, the stories told and retold, till we both know them better than the back of our hands that touched when we didn't want them too, but i did, i did, i did."

tear it out cleanly.
it can heal i can deal with the scars i'm not afraid anymore
but i can't sustain this.
do not resuscitate me.

if i had of known how far i would have to walk to find this
there's all the chance in hell that i'd be right back at the beginning,
sharpening my tools on upturned stones -
making excuses not to go

if i had of believed in the power of my own two hands
i don't think i would have ever gone looking
for somebody else to hold things for me,
as if it were unbearable to think myself whole

i woke up this morning
with cyanide in my eyes,
ghosts between my teeth,
and the devil in my stomach.
i looked at the clock
and it read 16:34.
though i slept for 18 hours
it felt like i hadn't slept in 18 days.
i was trying to get up
but the blankets were wrapped
around my neck,
choking me,
and my pillow
was stifling air from my lungs.
my sheets calmed me down
and told me
that 25 lines of shakespeare
were too much to memorize anyway.

i used to admire
the innocence of a child
how everything in their world was so
carefree

until i met a 5 year old boy
who asked if i could be his new mommy
because his old one wasn't around anymore

until i met a 10 year old girl
who had the same red slashes on her wrist
as i do now

until i met a 12 year old boy
who could tell me more about a broken family
than any child should ever be able to

until i met a 15 year old girl
who lived in the mirror
and wanted so badly to change everything she saw

i used to admire the innocence of a child
i always thought their worlds were so
carefree
but then i realised
that even children
are just as ****** as the rest of us

s.s