I was wrongly convinced that if I set
myself on fire first, that it would
hurt far less when you
threw me into the
flames.

I was warned of the real dangers in the world.
From the risk associated with
small pills in doggy bags,
to the instability that comes from
a bottle bought from a corner store.
But no mother or teacher
ever cautioned me of the agony
that would hit me like a bullet
from a boy with brown hair
and hands that finally made my skin
feel like it fit my heavy bones.

The stretch marks that you left on your mothers thighs
will hurt her far less than the lines you will leave
on your suicide note.
Stop and think for a second.

Sitting on the cold roof of your ageing apartment, I could barely find a fresh breath of air while you abused smoke after smoke.

The taste of ***** so crisp on my tongue and yet it was you, that made me feel drunk.

I will never feel content with myself anymore, nor with the black ink that pours from my chest whenever I hear your name.

stand in the kitchen
with your arms on my waist
whilst pouring my thoughts
into your capable mind,
with no need of worrying
about who will clean
up the spilled soul
that remains on the tiles.