I used to hold my own hand
And sing a lullaby into the darkness
To fall asleep

I’d lie on the floor and string chords together
And melancholy notes
Bit by bit

I think they all saw my blood
Splashed across that one cozy bedroom
And thought
Just maybe
They could force those lost molecules back into my

Multicolored veins

I knew we weren’t real all along
(Just rag dolls
Sloppily stitched together
Or some sort of
Hazy memory)

And if we did exist
Why would I feel so empty inside?

Final destination

There is a sickness inside me & no one can see it
It’s been there for years now

A lifetime, maybe
It grinds my bones down


Until the only thing left

Is stardust and moonshine
Drink it down, baby

One shot

No hesitation

No going back

Knock it down

And feel your empty heart fill

And your broken soul soar
How high is Heaven…?

I’ll never know
It’s somewhere down there

Beneath me and my high flying dreams

Deep within the flesh of the Earth

Still baking in the womb of the world
But where is Hell then…?

You would have to ask me that

Because only devils like me

Know the way
Hell is a dark

Hollow place

Etched into the very essence of our being
We are Hell

We imprison ourselves

We condemn our sins

We repent

And repay

And regret

And remorse
And none of it makes any difference

Because you cannot be rid

Of the Hell that is inside you
No one can see that either

Only you and me, baby

Your eyes reveal my secrets

Mine cry your pain

And together we hold hands

And let go of control

And one more drink, for the road…!
The way to Hell

Is a lovely little path

Lined with good intentions

And all the damage they do

It’s a quick trip

It only takes a lifetime

It only takes your life…in time.



I try to breathe, but I’m  barely breathing,

I can’t think clearly; i can barely speak.

My mind is filled with needless thoughts.

My cheeks are red and feverish…


I know what i must do,

But i can’t bring myself  to do it.

Instead i jump into a thousand distractions…

Mindlessly seeking the thrill of the ‘anything’,

I cringe at the progress of time on the clock.

And with lips gone dry from an internal hell-fire

I continue to evade what I cannot face.


Make me

It isn’t within me to let go on my own. It needs to be taken. Made to let go.

Make me let go?
Swallow up my fight and thwart my spinning inner workings with pain and pleasure. Overwhelm me. Wash over me in waves of heat from curve of breast to curl of feet.

Make me let go.

I know you see my need. In the way I look at you, pleading with open tearing eyes. I know. My voice is small, meek in its whispering in my mind.

Help me. Hurt me. Find me. Break me. Build me. Hurt me. Hold me. Kiss me.

Please, make me let go.

Make the burdens of my world gone, bring me focus.

Make me feel.

Call out my voice from me in pleading, trembling, begging words.

Make me.

Make me let go of the things I hide behind. The false smiles and well learned deflections, take them from me.

Shower me in rains of our sweat and fluids and clasp me, grasp me in knowing hands.

Reduce me. Use me. Help me. Hurt me.

Make me let go.

I beg you please,make me. I know you see it in my shivers. Hear it in my strained cries. Taste it on my warm lips and searching tongue. Feel it when my muscles clamp tight pulsing around you and your hands. I want this, please?

Make me let go.

Overtake me. Consume me. Restrain me. Pain me. Release me.
When my pieces are soggy with tears and spittle, when the broken parts are welted and bruised, when the hidden slivers of me are coated in you and sweat.

Then make me see I am not so broken, but treasured.

Make me let go of the things that haunt me, with your gentle strokes and cooing, calming words.

Make me lose the veils that cloud mine eyes as you kiss away tears.

Help me. Hurt me. Seduce me. Save me. Console me. Control me. Keep me. Take me.

Make me.



I see this light.

It’s the most beautiful thing in my life and I want to bask in it’s glory. Absorb it’s rays into my imperfect skin and let it radiate from my fast pacing heart. Shining and beaming on anyone that comes near me, letting me be the person I want to be, and help others and be with others like I’ve always wanted.

But then, I realize,

I’m not allowed to touch it.

I can only see it in my mind.
A bird of sorts, staring at me with it’s black eyes with a straight expression. Unafraid, and yet, aware.
And as I try to approach it’s wonder,

It flees.

It leaves me alone here in the dark, gray, concrete
I never escape, it just taunts me with it’s sheer freedom. Just the fact that it has the ability to fly elsewhere beckons at me with jealousy.

Cut off it’s wings.

A sudden impulse.
This feeling… what is this? I don’t understand…

Cut off it’s wings. Use them yourself.

I’m scared.
I don’t want to do anything like that. Why am I thinking these things? It never did anything to me…

Cut off it’s wings. Use them yourself. Get out of this hell hole.

I can’t leave this way.
What am I doing?
Why are these scissors in my hands?
I throw them to the side, deep where I can never find them, and the ebony eyed bird leaves once again.

Cut off it’s wings. Use them yourself. Get out of this hell hole.


These impulses, they almost invade my mind. Almost in a way to where I feel like I can’t control what I’m doing, even though I’m doing nothing.
Frozen, in time and in thought.
Scared, motionless in pure fear of myself and for those around me.

I open my eyes.
I’m sitting at my window.
The sun is heating up my stiff arms on the windowsill.
Birds are chirping in the distance.
My hand touches the cold surface of glass.

I’m trapped
Alone again.

Pleas and please

My head is full of clutter and begging for simplification.

Fuck feels. Fuck plans. Fuck thinking in any way shape or form.

Make me useful.

Remove second guessing with actions that leave only one possible reaction.

Make it hurt, not because I earned it or even because you want it to, but because that’s the way it is sometimes when you’re alive instead of just living.

I need to feel it, to feel something sensical in the silence between the screams.

Make me beg for it, desperately debased in the face of unknown hunger and unrivaled desire. Give me yours until mine overflows in pleas and please.

If ever you’ve wanted me, however you’ve wanted me, now is the time to show it. Telling is for the dreamers, and for once I’m feeling awake and reveling in reality.

Be real with me.

“I know”

the music is on and I can feel it booming into my bones, cracking them open.

my brain is pounding and I can see it.

I am breaking and I can hear it.

alive but not functioning, I cannot move.

falling into the floor, falling under.


waves of fear splashing onto the sides of my brain, breathing into each crack. footsteps crawling on me like thoughts, questions fading in but then out when no answer arrives.

I can taste the warm air that comes from his mouth. my lips are cracked but I let him keep kissing me. I can taste his air, his teeth, and his blood. I close my eyes as the cold air slips into my mouth, goes down my spine and into my toes. he rests a hand on my jaw and I break open, smoke from my body filling the room immediately.

“this is bad,” he says.

“I know.”

I know.

Words or blood or something

We are writers and we’re choking on the words, drowning in them, but yet we’re still looking everywhere for them. we dig into the emotions, label them with whatever our pens can spit out. Sometimes we create our emotions with our words. sometimes it’s how we bleed. when we don’t know how we feel, it’s dangerous because we write and we can convince ourselves that we feel a certain way and we let ourselves dwell in a feeling that was never meant to exist. Sometimes life is put on hold until all our blood has been poured out and we’re done screaming from the inside, but now it’s starting to really hurt. but sometimes when we’re dying, we realize how alive we really are. Its a cycle of explaining it and it never makes sense and you can never tell the difference between a thought and a feeling because they’re both in your body. you feel the emotion, but your thoughts conflict it and you can’t tell what’s real anymore, the feelings or the thoughts.  Sometimes there are no words for months and you can’t even be sure if you’re real.

We are writers, look at our fingernails- with our bare hands, we dig into the things we cannot see. look in our mouths- we dig into the unknown with our teeth. We feel the emotions but we can only express the thoughts of the emotions. We are writers and we throw ourselves on a stage when we whisper. We write about the intangible, about the pieces of ourselves when we fall apart. We live in our mad heads and we’re falling apart every single time our minds say so.

We are writers and the world is an ocean and we jump right fucking in and we’re getting drunk off of our desperate need to feel alive, our passion to dream and create, and we’re vomiting how our failures sound through literature. We get reckless. We get sick of the words. We drink and there are new words and we find that the words never really go away, we just don’t always know how to bleed them out.

We are writers and we dig into the sights. the look on his face when he is smiling that smile and you ask why he’s smiling like that and he says, “because you’re still talking and I’m impatient and all I want to do is play with  you. I’m smiling because of your rants. You need to let me shut off your brain and play.” We dig into these sights because sometimes, you see all of that in someone’s eyes.

We are writers and we dig into the feelings that are hard to explain. There are literally no words, but if the sentiment had to be explained, it would be like two people, at the same time, hearing Society by Eddie Vedder, not as music but as background sound, and you’re undoing his belt buckle and you’re both smiling. God, that is exactly what it’s like. We try to explain the nights that, now, thinking back, feel like the half of a dream you can remember, like a memory that will never die. We try to explain how the connection between two people can be so strong it’s like they’re holding hands, even through the distance.

We are writers and we’re staring at everyone, wondering what’s going on in their heads and when-how did our heads get like this? how do the words crawl all over like maggots, and how do the maggots know I’m dying- oh, they must smell this blood, I reek of it, so they must. it’s like being in the middle of London town and being asked to explain everything, empty the glass of water right down to its very last drop. and you know, you shake just thinking about it..



last night I cracked my skullinto a thousand tiny fragments 

faulty brittle bones 

I didn’t mind at all.

if truth be told,

I found it quite becoming: the hole

that crowned my head;

I suppose it should have hurt

(the shattering and all),

but concerned slipped

my glassy, vacant mind 

 evanished evermore 

all seemed clearer now,


Here I am again.

And here I am again, after feeling every emotion a human can possibly feel all at once, I break, and then I feel nothing. It’s quiet and it’s peaceful and I hate it. I hate that apathy calms me because I’m afraid that, this time, I might not be able to resist choosing between feeling everything or feeling nothing at all.