sui caedere

At ten she hated
herself to the point she planned her death -
a bubble in a syringe
straight into her bloodstream.

At thirteen she was raped
not violently but she still protested
losing her virginity to her cousin
death became a luxury

At sixteen she couldn’t see
past the pain, the lack of friends,
the invisibility emanating off her skin,
the though of death a solace

At twenty-one she lost
her fiancé and unborn child
in a car accident in which she was driving
even death did not want her

At twenty-seven she cried
herself to sleep every night alone
despite the fact she was married
death renewed its wooing

At thirty she learned
the way blood congeals and curls
to darkened cracks on the floor
death made a formal introduction.

But Do We Have the Same Diseases?

I'm in love with a ghost.

And I could drink myself blind just to see if it felt any different when we never touch. It's never quite so simple as simple words could say. It's never been complicated. Our lives are those of flies circling the flame. Moths desperately seeking landing zones at the end of a long frozen night. My greater purpose is the realization that I am no angel. I'm tired. I need something else.

I stand at the edge of the shore, peering through the stars, waiting for the change. Please, come take me away.

In Balance and Harmony with Nature

I cut the years off my face,
a straight razor to my skin
removing layer after layer
til I can see myself looking back.

I imagine my eyes fall out
with a plop into the sink,
looking back up at my barren face,
searching for imperfections.

What is revealed under
the layers that people see?
Am I better off without the
protection of all that epidermis?

Sideline Experiments, Distractions

He thinks he's picking me apart
And having the last laugh
Little does he know I'm already inside
Just waiting for the catastrophe
It's coming hard like another explosion
Or else he's falling in around himself
Either way, I'm the cause of this disaster
And so pleased to be the end of something beautiful
Remember me sweetly; and I'll forget you forever

Conversations with a Dead Man

He said -
Dying was like a mouthful of bitter coco powder,
with no water when you really wanted Belgium chocolate.
You choke on the last escaping breath,
as if your diaphram can pull it back in.
Then your eyes come unglued, drifting
out of the sockets, looking down at yourself.
You can see all your lines, scars, tells -
looking up at you as you look at them.

He said -
Watching me was the most fun he's had
since he's been dead.
My lines, scars, tells are blinded -
as I am to them.
There are no rejecting echoes
or criticisms seeping from my skin.

He said -
He would be content to stay with me.
I am a good listener.
When I sleep, with my eyes closed,
I look peaceful,
like he once imagined dying.

Arranged

Your hand in mine, We rewrote our lives,
Nothing turned out the same in the end.

As the ink flowed, we grew together,
one root, one vine, two flowers.

Now I have been plucked
to sit upon the table - alone.

All I can remember is the sun,
the rain and always looking at you.

Creating Character

I write, its what I do,
and you become words
on the page -
another fiction
of paper thin memories
waiting to be torn -
into pieces.
Not worth it, the effort
to rip apart.
Faded, yellowed,
crusted, dried tear
on the page.