Between life and death

again and again on my knees

broken by those who should help me stand

not sad nor happy in this life

forgotten

 

fallen

 

and getting up

again

again and again

every time

after every fall

more determined to keep standing

more desperate to avoid another

fall

 

depression doesn´t hurt

it´s beyond limits of sadness

beyond any other feeling known by mam

 

why?

being alive is too hard

there are easier ways around

 

why to stand up after fall?

 

standing

stubbornly holding on worthless things

patiently crying when no one hears

broken pieces glued together

by what?

 

life

 

effort testing limits of strength

buying time to find more will

forgetting to smile

what did it feel like

for the last time?

 

and again

 

falling

That feeling 

you know that feeling when you’re lying on the ground and all your blood is pouring out and you know you’re slowly dying, but you’ve lost too much blood that you can’t get up, and you don’t even care to do anything about it? that’s me right now. and I’m not sure if what I’m seeing now is a dream or if my life is flashing before my eyes or if it’s something else, but

this is what I see: I’m hunched over the toilet puking my brains out, and a voice tells me the end of the world is coming. somehow I have the energy to run to your house. somehow, before the windows shatter and everything becomes nothing, I grab your hand and this is how we turn to dust.

this is what I see: I barge into your room as you’re taking a toke, and at first you panic, but then you say, “oh, okay. it’s just you.” it’s just me.

this is what I see: the world is spinning. it’s a blur of lights, a carousel of colours. I’m dancing. when I close my eyes, I see myself falling, but keeping my eyes open makes me feel dizzy. I’m confusing the sights I see with opened eyes for the pictures I see with closed eyes. I’m scared to death. I’m crying hysterically. I’m so fucking drunk. 

this is what I see: my guts on the footpath. it looks like a picture I sketched last week. it looks like the bruises on my left hip and right cheek. I see a world with no sun but with flashlights blinding me and one hundred faces in my face poking me with sticks and asking me if I’m still alive.

this is what I see: I’m running. the wind is strong enough to push me down to my knees, and running too fast is still not fast enough, so I run until my lungs crumble and I collapse and I cry I cry I cry. I look like I’m drowning in a river but feeling alright. I see myself lying in the grass and I’m inhaling, I’m exhaling. the earth underneath me is breathing with me, and maybe I will not die alone after all.

Burying a wh.re

And when I die,
surely from sin and dirt and living-
Do not bury me in white.

Do not brush my hair and paint my nails.

Do not shine my heels and iron my dress.

Do not speak of me so bittersweetly.
Bury me in lingerie with frayed lace.

Muss my hair and smear my lipstick.

Scuff my boots and rip my tights.

Speak of me with thinly-veiled vehemence.
Do not love me,

when I am dead.

For none did during life,

other than in the glow of a t.v.

that only played to hide the moans.
Do not bury an imposter

and spin tales of a sweet virgin

who died too soon.

Bury a wh.re

and rage that you were not the one

to finally silence her.