Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics

I want to hurt me, to prove that you were nothing special. I want you to see my scars, so I can scream “See?! I don’t need you to break me! I can do it just fine all alone!”

I’ll hold out for tonight,

The same as every night,

But I swear this time tomorrow

I’ll be better, I’ll be whole.


It’s not that I enjoy lying

But it’s the only thing I own;

My words are still my words,

Even if they have no home.


So while everything is burning

I’ll keep pretending I’m okay.

I swear I was just twenty,

So why am I thirty today?


I don’t want to keep going

Because I can never earn back my love

So I keep on leaning over the edge;

Won’t you give me that final shove?

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

It’s not Hell on Earth, it’s just Hell.

“People can break into pieces, and every single one of those pieces still has enough of us to feel, enough of us to love, enough of us to break again…We may only have 1 life to live, but in that life, a person can die more than once.”

I tried to wash this all away in a rush of pills and alcohol. It was one mistake to match every other mistake I’ve ever made, and all to soon I hit the bottom of every bottle within arm’s reach. The only thing worse than hitting rock bottom, is hitting rock bottom to fast. I’m already out of options, but the drugs haven’t taken full effect. I’m still capable of thinking and feeling, and since I am already at the bottom, I have nothing left but time.

Time is the enemy here; it always has been and always will. I’m at the bottom, but time followed me down, so now all I can do is wait. And waiting is the worst. I’m just waiting for the pills to poison my blood, light a fire under my skin that demands release. I’m just waiting for the alcohol to flush away any lingering, rational thoughts, leaving me to choke on sour breath and unvoiced regrets.

Yes, it’s all a waiting game now, the only game I seem to know how to play, and the only game you never have a chance to win. Every second I’m left waiting for the high to rip away my senses, a palpable fear filters its way into the cracks of my remaining humanity. I’m trapped in this crumbling reflection, and its hell. This is the lowest level of hell. This is the boiling sulfur, fire and brimstone, pray to your God and every God for just a shred of mercy, type of hell.  

Yet, through it all, time still crawls forward, and it drags my sorry ass out of that pool of fear and into an Ocean of nothingness. I blink up at the sky and wonder if I’ve gone blind, because whether my eyes are open or closed, everything looks the Goddamn same. I try to listen for something familiar, but as I strain my ears, I realize I can’t even sense a whisper from this saltwater room. I want to lift my head up, or sit up, or just wiggle a toe, but this saltwater is binding my exposed skin to the unshifting brine. I am trapped, and for a split second, the fear I’ve been swallowing swells, eclipsing my everything, and nothing exists outside of this gaping mouth of hopelessness that stands ready to swallow me whole.

But that second passes, and I’m just alone. I’m alone, without even my own thoughts for company. Nothing can reach me here, at the bottom of my upside-down Sea. Nothing can touch me, or burn me, or scare me. Nothing can choke me, or poison me, or rip me apart. Nothing can hurt me, because there’s nothing left in this world to hurt, because I made sure, I made damn sure, that I left myself nothing…

And even with nothing…I still wake up.

I know it wasn’t just a bad dream. I know that hell, that fear, that painful absence of any hope… I know they are all very real…but every time I do this, I still wake up.  

I know enough about my own shitty person to know how much is too much, and I stop short of pulling the trigger every time. Every stupid time. Every single stupid, fucking chance I give myself to get out, I fucking stop short! I’m right there! I can fucking see the end RIGHT FUCKING THERE! BUT I CAN’T DO IT! I CAN’T FUCKING DO IT! I CAN’T!!!!!

…I can’t do it…I should do it…I want to do it…but I can’t do it…

And it hurts…it hurts so goddamn much…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I expected him to change, because he said he would change, and I am in the habit of believing bad people when they tell me they’ll do something.

I think it started back when I entered High School, and I would spend entire nights just staring at my arms, wishing there was some sort of magical lotion or bandage that could erase all these obviously self-inflicted cuts. I would be so ashamed, I would write myself an angry letter, boldly declaring I would never cut again!

Of course, that isn’t how things went.

I cut again.

And I let the shame build up, balanced on top of all my broken promises to myself. So, when somebody else promises me that they will change, that they won’t hurt me again, I believe them.

I have to believe them.

If I can’t believe that bad people can change for the better, I have no more excuses for why I’m still here…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“This may sound obvious to some, but you don’t have to say that you’re okay when you aren’t okay.”

Breathing in these embers, my esophagus melts like candle wax, and these things I need to get off my chest remain buried in my lungs. They fight for a release, so they worm their way through my veins. I can feel them crawling, a sick itch beneath my skin, sending my sense of touch into disarray. I need relief from the fire that is boiling in my blood, so I’ll treat my skin as bark, carving out chunks of crimson comfort..