Hangs noose.
Loads gun.
Turns on car,
shuts garage door.
Sticks head in oven
Sylvia Plath style.
Leaps off of unforgiving bridge
and meets water with a smack.
Tangos with oncoming traffic
transfixed by headlights
like once frolicking dear.
Sticks tongue into outlet
to see what electricity tastes like.
Attempts to cuddle with hungry
bear after it emerges from hibernation.
Gets thrown to wolves,
and fails to return leading the pack.

Suicide by irony.
Gun backfires in robbery and attacker gets a brain bleed
in the form of a gaping hole.

when organizing my makeup collection
became the most complicated game of tetris
I'd ever played, I knew I was in trouble.
Organizing letters on a Wednesday afternoon
is the highlight of my week now,
and it's scary because I used to roam streets
like the wheels on a decade old Cadillac
begging for new rims and a paint job,
like a poor man begs for money on
city street corners. I am the cup he holds out
for the sympathetic woman to drop her
spare change into. I am only a fragment of
something greater that has not yet been reached.
I am sitting on porch steps waiting for the rain to fall,
because at least then I'll feel something, even if it is cold and damp and unforgiving. It will be better than
the emptiness of my head that has become clouded
over with Italian food, and even more Italian wine
I am a ******* statistic, a number.
I am mommy's one mistake that she didn't erase
from the page that is her life
she didn't plan for me,
so she didn't plan the escape route.
She loves me, but not because she wanted to.

I never knew how to
write poetry correctly.
It's not like it comes with an
instruction manual
that reads in italicized letters

"dig so deep into your head that if a brain aneurism were to spontaneously combust, you'd be the first to know about it"

No one told me that my emotions
would corkscrew like falling
meteorites every time I picked
up a pen.

No one told me that the thoughts
would sometimes dry up
and leave me searching like
a dog who buried a bone and
then developed a rare type
of amnesia.

No one told me that sometimes
it would be hard to get the words
onto the page without tears
falling like a liquid avalanche.

There was no instruction manual
or italicized letters. There was only me,
and a lot of lessons to learn.

i heard you died last night.
it was an overdose they said.
maybe crack?
maybe ******?
who knows...
you used so much.
you'll never know him.
she was upset,
but then she was slightly happy.
but now she's just worried.
he'll never know you.
he might blame them for
never meeting you.
maybe he won't even care.
but you ****** it all up.
too ******* self-absorbed in yourself
and your need for speed.
so honestly,
here are my condolences.
but all in all,
i'm glad that you never had
the chance to be a father.
you didn't deserve it
anyways.

I guess I could have put all this into a text message, but I wanted you to have something written by these weathered hands.
I swear if you make me smile one more time, my face will crack. My cheeks will split like chapped lips in winter air, and it will prove that feelings like this can hurt too, no matter how amazing they are.
You make me feel alive. It's almost as if you walked into my head, and told all the bad things they had to find another place to live. That my subconscious was no longer their place to crash. I hope that makes sense to you. If it doesn't, I apologize, as a writer I have an analogy for everything and sometimes I'm too cryptic for my own good.
The truth is you make me so nervous because every good thing I've ever experienced has ended in agony, and this is so good that I'm afraid in the end it might **** me. There's a gnawing in the pit of my stomach, telling me to run because it's never as good as it seems. But I ignore it, and stay, because I trust you.
I trust you so much it is scary.

"You're not going to change, huh?"
"You said a few months ago that people are born this way...why would it change when it comes to me?"
"I guess I didn't see this coming."
*"I've told you enough times, but you never listened."