"Rip it off like a bandaid"
It will sting less,
only for the first second or so.

Too bad I liked to take my time
while pealing the sticky material away -
prolonged pain

When you are too drunk
to drink the drink
that drains the drunk
from your stomach,
what then?
Drink more,
drunk more,
drain more,
until you are empty
and full of drinks
in which make you drunk
in which make you drink more drinks
until you are drunk, drunk
too drunk to drink the drinks
that take away the drunk
I drank

the mornings after were always a sugar coat
i laugh at the things i did that night
when inside was little remorse but it was definitely there
this remorse grew
yet i'd glady sin again if it was in my face
I didn't care about myself
i figured out the world in physical aspects and emotional
i found ways to disconnect the two
i could play in our physical world and not connect any of it to emotional matters
i treated myself as a gum packet
everyone took a piece
everyone put it in their mouth and chewed it up
after awhile my taste dulled
then i was spit out.
eventually all my pieces were gone
and i have yet to find a flavor that lasts forever.

God,
(I'm not praying, I'm mourning)
It is exactly 1:04 in the morning
and 37 seconds
and I can't even ******* sleep
and there is no one that I can talk to who understands me
because the people that do,
stopped caring when I started trying. . .
I'm writing this here on this piece of paper or computer screen
(whichever you choose)
because I ******* miss you.
And I know that you would yell at me if you heard that word
come out of my mouth
but I would rather you yell
than not say nothing at all. . .
****, ****, ******
You're still not yelling so that means you must
really be gone. . .
It's 1:09 now, dad
and 17 seconds
and I have school tomorrow
but I can't sleep because you always ******* haunt my thoughts
and I used to think that I wanted to **** myself
because I thought I could be with you when I die
cause you said we could meet again in heaven,
you remember that, right?
Sure you do, that was one of your
last ****** days on this earth
But now that I don't believe in heaven
or hell
or maybe even God,
what have I got to die for?
In fact, what the hell do I even have to live for?
You're so ******* gone and
it ******* hurts
and maybe it makes me a ****** poet to write
so many curse words in a poem.
You would scold me if you read this.
But you can't read this,
and you're not scolding me
and you're not even ******* here anymore.
You're just gone,
and *God,
I need you to hug me and tell me it's all okay
and call me your little girl one last time
and let me see you ******* wasted
off your knockers one last time
and let me come home to find you broke into our house again
and let me listen to you yell at my mother
once more. . .
God, maybe this makes me a bad person
but I would take anything just to have you back.
I ******* miss you. . .
and no matter how hard I try
I can not put down in words the immense
seering pain that I have felt.
It's 1:17 a.m
and who ******* cares about the seconds.

I t h i n k a b o u t y o u
m o r e t h a n m y t h e r a p i s t s a i d I s h o u l d .

I suppose you
are much like a staple gun;
for you can
hold me together

and yet I
could be compared to a
pair of rusty scissors;
destined to tear thee apart