I Wasn't Thinking

I wasn't thinking

This sort of thing would happen

If we were alone

Pull Me in Close

You pull me in close

Forgotten feelings cry out 

Your skin touching mine

We Crack our Bones

We crack our bones to

Grind the marrow to dust which

We throw to the wind 

Ich rauche

Ich rauche Kippe um Kippe, mit der Hoffnung, diese Gefühle würden sterben.... und ich am besten dazu. 

I smoke cigarette after cigarette with the hope that this feeling will die... And I maybe I will too. 

Maybe it's Because

Maybe it's because I miss you so much that I put on my craziest outfit and went to one of those wild dance parties where people lose their bodies and find their souls. Maybe that's why I found myself pressed up against a boy, my eyes shut, my body floating through space, my head ensnared in the music. Maybe that's why when he took me by the hand and led me from the room to the empty parking lot I simply nodded my head and climbed into the temporary privacy of my car with him to fog up the windows as he kissed marks into my neck. Maybe that's why I gave this boy my number and prayed for a text or a call or a smoke signal or something that told me I wasn't worthless and used up to him. Maybe that's why when he did text me and suggest I come over to finish what we started I laughed happily and agreed to do whatever he liked. Maybe that's why when he stopped texting and never answered I started checking my phone constantly because perhaps, perhaps I'd missed the ping of a new string of words to comfort me. Maybe that's why when he finally began speaking again and suggested I come to his friends house that night I agreed and dolled up and drove an hour for him to let me into the house and say his friends on vacation, it's just us two. Maybe that's why when he once again took my hand and led me to a bedroom I followed, dropping my shirt on the way and closing the door behind me so the dog couldn't hear me moan. Maybe that's why when we finished and walked back out and he sat down on the sofa and I sat next to him and he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, I felt like the world sat in alignment for a moment with all my stars and I swear I could've stayed like that forever. Maybe that's why when the door opened and his friends walked in smoking something hand rolled and hazy and he suggested we go outside to smoke a cigarette under the stars I followed. Maybe that's why as we leaned against my car and his glorious arms were around me and he was breathing deep breaths into my messy hair and he said maybe I could go home then because he promised his friends he'd hang tonight but we'll definitely spend time together again, I laughed and said of course and gathered my things. Maybe that's why when he kissed me goodbye and as an afterthought asked for two of my cigarettes and a promise to meet again, I complied, once again giving him everything he wanted. Maybe that's why when the next morning he texted me asking how I was and was I sore because he sure was, I messaged him back and we talked for hours. Maybe that's why after that day he stopped speaking to me or texting me or calling me or sending smoke signals to me and I felt so goddamn alone again it's almost unbearable. Maybe all of this is because I needed someone, anyone, to love me and hold me because you said you just couldn't anymore because I cried too much and laughed not enough and always did what I was asked.  

Stupid Boys

Stupid boys who will never text you 

back

The cute ones you met on the

dancefloor

Who hold onto your hips as you 

sway 

And turn you around for a deep long 

kiss

Who nip at your neck and squeeze at your

breasts

And tell you little white lies like "you're 

beautiful"

In hopes that you'll lead them out to your

car

To let them reach under your 

clothes 

In hopes that you'll reach under 

theirs

Because that's just who we are:

The whisperer

The listener

The enticer

The follower

The pleader 

The relenter

You

Me

Another Sad Film About Suicide

What is there to say about the eternal hum in my brain that fires synapses and sends electricity out on jagged paths from one neuron to another. Pushing the proverbial red button that says "Do not push!" That when pushed sets itself on a course of self destruction is not a choice I consciously made. The spiked lines on a heart moniter spelling out the words "STOP! STOP! STOP!!!" are not vocalizing a cry for attention or unwillingness to try. Instead they speak of a war that cannot, must not, be lost yet I am not sure I want to fight. A war which, if won, leads to a future and, if lost, the gentle lullaby of a swinging rope. Everything pushes me close to tears now, things I don't fully understand. The birds in the trees constrict my throat as the image of a black mailbox at the end of our drive burns my eyes. These things aren't tragic or poignant but my overloaded brain cannot bear the thought of tranquility or beauty when so much in me is ruptured and rotting so instead tears roll down my face. I sit in bed at night and watch romantic movies of girls like me except these wilted flowers are too entranced by the burn of the bullet or the ice of antifreeze as it flows down your throat and all the movies invariably end with slashed wrists and a tubful of blood. The utter romanticism of these images, girls who never figured out how exactly to love themselves and therefore ended themselves, leave me thinking of all the times I've counted out delicate white capsules and washed them down with a shot of vodka each and felt the burn of them in my throat just like the tears that will no doubt burn my eyes when all the pills are gone and there's no more alcohol. So I leave myself to lock my doors and stumble to bed and stare at the ceiling and fire runs down my cheeks as I think of what I've done. How many times have I played this out? I can't remember. At least five? Seven? Ten? It leaves me to wonder why I haven't died. You'd think sleeping pills and vodka ten times would leave some lasting damage but the only organ failure I have is my damn brain. One time I started vomiting. I sat by my toilet and threw up blood and soggy powder. I cried so hard my nose bled and I had vomit in my hair and on my face. I slept in the tub that night. Intermittently crying and throwing up until dawn finally broke and I was still alive. Another time, perhaps a month ago, I went blind. A bad drug cocktail I suppose. Don't mix hydrocodon with vodka and trazadone. I could barely walk and my vision kept fading in and out until it went and didn't come back. I passed out on the stairs up to my room then again on my bedroom floor. I woke up disappointed the next morning with sunlight streaming through the window and my mother yelling. But no longer blind. I was sick for days after that. These stories aren't told for pity or attention as some have accused. Instead they are a way to say that my body, no matter what I do, stays healthy but my brain is diseased and languishing in its own filth. But I speculate it will always be that way so what use is a ripe vessel if the contents are spoiled.