When the world turns dark


I realize I imagine it still– slitting my wrists. No, not exactly; not so much that action of slitting as the sensation of having your wrist slit. A numbing, tingling sensation and hands going cold, limp and weak.

I’m so angry– angry at the world, angry at everyone for being such a disappointment. But most of all, angry at myself, and thats’s the worst of all, the one that makes everything else crumble.

What is the point of it?

Too often, it is. The number of times I wish to disappear. Too often, to not exist. Too often, that there’s no point. Feeling too helpless, useless and trapped.

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Demon I


Everyday
A demon whispers in my ear.

you don’t want to live
he breathes
you don’t want to be here
you don’t want this, any of this

imagine the blade
across your skin
silently slice, slice, slice
again, again.
hypnotizing comfort.

imagine the height
imagine the flight
what a rush!
of adrenaline and wind

Along the streets and roads
come and crash us down, come on.
Around the corners
sudden headlights and screech of brakes, come on.

what else does he say to me?
no one cares.
what else does he say?
you’re as alone as can be.
its echo-y in my head

((no one cares))(caress)(caresss))
((you’re alone))(alone)(lone..))

you don’t want to live
he coos
your life, so dead. empty. meaningless.
there’s nothing here. 

Everyday
A demon whispers in my ear.

Prayers for Bobby


Touching story. Real people, real lives.

From the description, “The true story of a mother’s struggle to reconcile the tension between her deeply held religious beliefs and the suicide of her gay son. Mary Griffith came from a religious family and raised her four children to believe in God and live a Christian life. Their conservative Presbyterian church was the center of family life for every family member except Mary’s husband, Bob. When 17-year-old Bobby confided to older brother Ed that he was gay, the family’s life changed. Mary convinced Bobby to pray that God would cure him and to seek solace in church activities. Bobby did it all, but the church’s hatred of homosexuality and the obvious pain his gayness was causing his family led him increasingly to loathe himself. Excerpts from a diary he kept, family photos, and letters written by Mary to her dead son make the book intense reading for both high-school and public library patrons.”

Give it a watch if you have the time!

Will it take the death of someone close to you for you to consider that you may be wrong?

Ode to Suicide


Write in prose, and people worry.
Write a poem, it’s merely expression.
So I’ll write in prose-thinly-disguised-as-poetry
Give it some rhythm, give it some form.
It’s the best I can do.

Here is a blade,
a bottle of poison,
a gun.

Well-
since I have neither poison nor gun
I guess the blade is my weapon of choice.

A gun is too loud,
too sudden, too quick.
And also too messy and gory.
Out of control, angry and wild.

Poison is too subtle,
too hidden, too covert.
It makes me think of my bout with food poisoning:
A piercing pain
On the inside beyond reach,
Beyond control and ambushing;

A blade is neither of those.
A blade is silent;
the sounds of slicing
only in your mind.
With a blade you have control
Of a sharp, scraping, surface pain;
The kind I like.
A blade offers the luxury of time
in the way it takes:
Seeping, draining
leaking, fading.
Gradual

And yet
all these pain are but a mere cover up for another
the kind that eats you alive from the inside
and takes your life even if you don’t.

Written on the 3rd of December 2011