On clear nights I stare at the sky and make a wish to those billion year old lights, and it’s the same wish every single time. 

I want to live in a place where my heart feels…weightless. I want to know the type of hug that feels warm, like summer air against your skin. I want to find myself lost in thoughts of fireworks and pancake breakfasts, snowball fights in January and chocolate filled Halloweens. I want to look forward to what I can be, what I can achieve. I have the type of heart that feels as if it is made of lead; to heavy to carry with me, and so I often find myself leaning on others for things I should only support on my own 2 feet. Basically, I feel a need to wish I was just like everyone else, to smile just because, to laugh without trying to hide something, without having to cry about it later. Do people walking down the halls of malls, the streets to different bars, parks and stores, do these people ever stop to wonder “why does every step I take feel as if I’m falling?

~A place where I reach for the hands of others instead of for the knife sitting on the table…

The scars are cat scratches and work mistakes, rough basketball and rugged runs through trails at dusk. The scars are warnings, screams of “stay away!” “I’m not worth knowing!” “I can’t be saved…”

If people were to have to face this, the reality that I’ve created in my own mind, I’d like to think they could appreciate my self-hatred a little more.

If I was never aiming to accomplish anything, then by definition I couldn’t fail, right? I guess logic isn’t one of my strong suits.

I’ve been here before;

That point where my wrist twists at the touch of pen to paper.

My body yearns for a release into words,

For that is the only time I’ve ever felt..whole.

Yet, once before, this very same stutter did occur.

I was falling, drowning, every other analogy for dead on my feet.

I was in a room that never made a noise,

Yet the blood in my ears was always a deafening roar.

I sat, hands clutched in some sort of death grip,

As if the air between my palms was the last bit of oxygen on Earth

And I wanted to save that last breath

For that time when my words would find me again.

Still, those words would be wasted on blank space,

Open fields, dusty corners of forgotten hell-holes,

For they would never find the right ears to listen.

So, the age old question came to mind;

If my screams to the ceiling are made on nothing but

These pages in black and white, with no one here

To hear what it is I’m trying to say, well,

Did I ever really say anything at all?…

I’ve been here before;

Blood covering my sheets from a lack of common sense.

Arms that are sore from cuts that are far too deep.

Legs that itch from the scratches they are unaccustomed to.

A mind so sick of being stuck in my head that it rips and tears at every thought I have, turning them fragile and me timid and scared and so angry at my lungs for continuing to work and giving my brain the oxygen it needs to turn every blink into a flurry of memories, poisoned and turned into tools that beg me to pull the trigger…

My words are failing me again, because they are at that point once again..that point where my mind has shut off every thought aside from failure, aside from pain. Once again I’m at a breaking point. Only this time I have much less of a chance of getting out alive. I made it last time by sheer luck; perfect timing of distractions. Now what do I have left? Nothing to distract my mind from what I realized 5…no, 20 years ago…I don’t think I should be happy, should be alive…I’ve only proven that more and more…so why am I still here?

Melting this craving into true hunger, I now starve in my cyanide affections.

Pierced through my skin, as sudden as a hornet’s sting,

The lingering sensation left on my hands by his stroke.

My lips wither outside of his taste; O does my body know

How to turn desire into true demand.

What once was a wish now boils in my blood,

Looms over my waking dreams, cradles in my gut,

Burning holes in my humanity..

You know what they say, a little rain never hurt anybody, so I’ll be just fine. Trust me. 

Umbrellas are supposed to be used to keep a person dry in the rain. Okay, so to be very specific,  they are just tools to be used to keep things under them dry in the event of a downpour. In this scenario that would be you, which includes but is not limited to, your hair and ears and those owl earrings I bought for you at the bookstore, your flashy eyelashes and rosy cheekbones, the soft lines that serve as the outskirts of your wine lips I just love to see curve upward when we are talking, and of course that comfy ass, oversized hoodie you always wear when I ask you to come take a nap with me. We both know that hoodie belongs to me, but when you told me you liked it because it smelled like me and you wanted to keep it for the night so you could wear it to sleep, well holy hell, I never knew someone talking about how I smelled could make me feel so fucking loved. So now it’s “our” hoodie, just like The Muppets became “our” movie, Red Robin became “our” restaurant, Breaking Bad was “our” show, so somehow, even with all this sharing, all of these things that became “ours”, I didn’t see any problems with having my heart be all “yours”. Everything else was just stuff, right? I can get a different hoodie and burn the old one. I can start hating the muppets; maybe begin a complete aversion to all things puppet related, just to be safe. I can stop eating at Red Robin, or even just avoid all food places with names relating to red things, or bird things, or just stop eating altogether to save myself the hassle. I can stop watching AMC, or break my TV, or hell, just sell all my shit, move to a cabin in the woods and be a fucking hermit for the rest of my life. I can do any of that, or none of that, because those things were “ours”, so even if there stops being an “us”, those things will still be there, and they don’t lose any meaning, the memories remain, and that’s not a bad thing. But I made my heart yours…and I didn’t really give you a choice in that, huh? I was a dark soul, and you were my light, and I was so fucking happy to finally be…happy…I didn’t think I had a heart to give, and when you showed me I did have a heart, well I was so eager to give it to you, to force it onto you. We could share your heart, but not mine; I didn’t know how to share it, because I didn’t even know I had one…I didn’t know how to love myself, so instead I threw all of my love, every ideal of love I had compiled over my 22 years of existence, and I crammed it all together and I gave it all to you, without a receipt or anything, and what could a nice person like you do but accept it with that curvy smile and a warm hug in “our” hoodie and promise me you’d keep it safe forever and always? None of this is your fault. I’m the type of human who finally finds a heart, only to eagerly shove it into someone else’s hands and expect them to keep it safe and warm and loved for me. That’s not how hearts work. That would be the same as walking out into the rain and getting wet, then having a stranger hand you an umbrella and saying “Hey, this is your umbrella, it was just sitting there right next to you, so I grabbed it, but it’s yours. I have my own, so you just keep this one, it’s yours.” and then shoving that umbrella back into that person’s hands and replying “You’re so kind and you’re so wonderful, please, just keep both umbrellas, really, somebody like me doesn’t even know what an umbrella is for. I mean, if I had to make a guess I would say umbrellas are supposed to be used to keep a person dry in the rain. Okay, so to be very specific,  they are just tools to be used to keep things under them dry in the event of a downpour. In this scenario that would be you…

Fresh snow shining in the morning Sun is a view I’ll never grow tired of.

I want you to fall in love with me

The same way the flower falls in love

With the rising of the sun on the Eastern shores,

Those Boston winters capping the cold buds,

A dark center, kept to itself,

Until it unfurls with a moment

Of spring time winds and morning mist;

Fall in love with me during my winters

And bloom for me when my warmth

Is there for you to hold.

A quarter century has passed, and I don’t want this to be everything, but another day has gone by that and that empty bottle of pills feels like the only thing I can hold onto.

I think my subconscious is trying to force my throat shut so I can’t keep downing these pills like fucking skittles. Haha, jokes on me, I’ve spent my entire life forcing bullshit out of my mouth, so forcing some more shit back down? It’s easy as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, I’ve never taken this many before, 13, 14, 15, it got kinda high fairly quickly, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, I feel like bad things happen at 20, so I better keep moving on, 21, 22, 23, 24, 24, 24, 24, 24, 24, 24, ah now my hand decides to shake. It’s not the pills doing this though, enough time hasn’t passed. O, so I finally let it sink in, that this is stupid, that I can’t turn away, huh? Well good, a fucking coward like me can’t leave himself anywhere to run…

Your heart starts to race really, really fast after about an hour on 5 pills. Sure, it kind of sucks because that’s not what sleep aids are supposed to do, but with my heart racing my mind doesn’t seem able to keep up, and so I can just sit and not concentrate and feel no fear, no anger, not even my own skin as it attempts to crawl away from the edge of the dull knife I’m using to saw away at my upper arms, a pathetic decision made in poor lighting to give myself pause in the shower so I can remember why it is I want to drown in that warm water…

You lose a bit more of yourself with pills 7 and 8. See, before it was like a cloud was hanging around my head so I couldn’t see very far, but I could still type, still get out a few words, still walk up and down steps, aka I could “act” normal if need be. Pill 7 and 8 get me very, very close to losing that ability. It takes intense focus for me to talk and control my breathing, because I feel like my lungs won’t work if I’m trying to talk and breathe at the same time. I have a thought enter my mind as I’m walking up the stairs and I slip and hit my knee, hard, and think ouch, then think about why I fell, then think why was I thinking about falling, then think where I was going, then start the cycle all over again.

Pill 10 is my bread and butter. Pill 10 is what slips me over the edge and keeps me from seeing the bright screen I always keep in front of my eyes. Pill 10 let’s me forget about those nightmares I have about having my old life back, about my friends coming over just to hang out with me, my teammates piling into my Dad’s car for some Sunday fun-day bullshit, that cute girl kissing me in the back of an Olive Garden whilst we battle with breadsticks like real fucking adults. Yeah, pill 10 let’s me fucking forget all that shit, and then I can lose all other thoughts, like why I’m breathing so hard, or why I would ever want to move, and it leaves my mind so…so empty of everything but the thought of wanting to start over..

Pill’s 13, 14, 15, 16, fuck, even pill 20, holy fuck they start to hurt..they start to make my stomach turn and I’m stuck on a toilet seat and I have no idea where I am or where I was 5 seconds before that, and I leave the water in the faucet running because I need sound and I can’t get a grip, both figuratively and literally, and I strangle myself as I strap my headphones on to my fucking face, and my arms are covered in cuts, my white shirt ruined from a blade I can’t even tuck back into hiding in a drawer, and those Dixie cups I keep by the sink are fucking everywhere and I can’t cry because I have no liquids in my body and my mouth can’t scream because it’s so fucking dry and the darkness is somehow too fucking bright and so my eyes close, and my clothes are too fucking hot so I try to rip them off, but holy hell they have become sown unto my skin by sticky, unsightly sweat, THAT’S WHERE ALL MY BODY’S FUCKING WATER WENT, TO MAKING ME A FUCKING MERMAID OF RAGE AND SQUALLS AND just like that I don’t have the energy to continue any rage, and I forget why my shirt is halfway over my face, and I look up at a computer screen that has 888888888888888888 repeated over 6.75 pages when I hate all things numbered, and I can’t recall why I hate, and I can’t recall why I need friends, or life, or a second chance, or this first chance, or change, or kindness, or forgiveness, or, or, or, so many fucking “or’s” because I can’t keep a thought or hold a candle in the wind or fight this demon without a flashlight, without a reward, without theme music and good songs and common sense and rappers named Common, and all this leads me to a conclusion that even when I can forget the world, my world, my skin, I still can’t forget my failure that is me, all of me…

Pill’s 21, 22, 23, 24, they are taken in a mad rush, well after the others, so in the back of my mind I know they won’t add to this downward spiral, but in that moment I just wish, I wish, I use all 3 of my genie wishes from the lamp I have broken by my bedside table to wish I had kept going so these pills would rush into my blood, turn it boiling into an overflowing pot of shame with a dash of salt for flavor, olive oil for keeping the pasta from sticking together, and ultimately lead to a hefty serving of “FUCK ME AND EVERYTHING I’VE EVER BEEN, EVERYTHING I’VE EVER SAID OR DONE. ERASE ME FROM THIS SHIT. FUCK. DO YOU HEAR ME GOD, YOU FUKCING ERASE ME! I DIDN’T ASK TO BE BORN, ASK FOR ANY OF THIS! I DIDN’T WANT TO FAIL YOU, FAIL ALL OF MY FRIENDS BACK TO BACK TO BACK, FAIL MOM AND DAD IN SUCH A COMPLETE WAY, I DIDN’T WANT…..I….I didn’t…I swear, I’ll do better just…please…wake me up God…please make this all a dream, something I can cry about later and cry it all out…why can’t I cry this out, scream this out….why….”

It’s the questions that arise so quickly, back to back, rapid fire, that doesn’t allow me to forget them fast enough, and so the only logical answer is more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more, more. But my bottle only has 1 left.

Pill 25.

And it won’t be enough.

I swallow it without a drink.

It sticks to the back of my throat.

I cough it back up.

I try again.

I taste vomit.

I cry a little.

I choke on the pill again.

I turn my head in the bathroom and empty my guts all over the porcelain seat.


I fall.


I keep falling.

I hit my head, so it starts to bleed.

I regain some focus.

I look in my hand and that pill is still there, clutched through it all, and I look down and see my own vomit everywhere, and I turn the bath water on and fall face first into the tub and it hurts but I’m so numb and thirsty and I’m drinking this lukewarm, bloody, soiled, contaminant laced backwash, and I’m still holding that #25, and I keep my head under this tide of disgusting reality until I can’t breathe and I’m forced to come up begging for air, and I swallow down this stale apartment oxygen with enthusiasm unexpected from a fool who was just moments ago trying to keep all the carbon dioxide in this tiny space inside of his body in hopes that it would knock some sense into him, or knock some of the guilt out of him, and #25 has just won the MVP award for it’s ability to stay nestled calmly in the palm of my hand, and I trip getting up; water covers my bathroom floor and my nice bath rugs are now a mess, ruined to the point no person could tell they once were quality bath rugs from Bed, Bath and Beyond, and now I know everybody who will ever come visit me will think they are cheap Walmart knock-offs, and I decide to keep my streak of 0 visitors going, and I use all the hand towels I can reach from my knees, all the toilet paper left on the roll, to clean up the water and put it back into the tub where the drain is, and it’s very slow going because while my left hand is going as fast as it can, my right can’t hold onto anything because it is being kept prisoner by that fucking #25, and I start to hate all multiples of 5, and I think of shooting the old me who liked the #5 during baseball and basketball seasons, and I start thinking of ways 25 is the worst, like 25 cent’s is a quarter, and a quarter sucks because it’s not a fifty cent piece, and that actually sucks too because it’s just like 2 #25’s, and suddenly my revulsion for all things money turns me into a Monk on the spot, and I think I should bow my head and place my body and soul in front of God to feel his love run over me, fill me to the brim, and I bow my head so low it hits the floor that I swear was 3 more inches away, and I begin to rub my stupid forehead with a balled up fist because no amount of anything ever can pry this pill #25 from it, and I feel dizzy and drowsy and I plead with my eyes to stay awake because this pain in my bathroom is so much more bearable than those dreams that I would rather stay in this hell on Earth over having another one of those dreams, but fate is never kind to those who blame their circumstance on it, and so I feel the high wear off, feel my fingers and toes and bloody arms and head, taste the awful vomit water on my teeth, begin to slightly comprehend where I went wrong, and before I can lift my right hand to my mouth to take #25 I shake and shake and cry and cry, and I want to stay awake, keep fighting, keep struggling, keep on pushing, breaking until I don’t have to dream, until I don’t have to remember anything…and I pass out…and I wake up and it has turned from light to a very pink sort of light, and I register a sunrise landscape, and I realize I am capable of thought and logic and I realize it must be Saturday morning and I realize I have to get ready for work, and I realize I’ll have to clean up this fucking hurricane soon, and I push myself up and feel my knees wobble and fall and I put out my hand to stop myself and I find my right hand open, open as if  it were a well lubricated door hinge, and I see that #25 in the corner of my eye right next to the now wrecked bath rug and I keep staring from my hand to that pill like I was working out some sort of advanced mathematical equation that I was only just beginning to grasp the concept of and I tear my eyes away to look at a broken clock because of course it’s broken, this is the metaphor for my existence, and I leave the pill on the floor and curse all things 25…

O wait.

I’m 25.

So I finally let it sink in, that this is stupid, that I can’t turn away, huh? Well good, a fucking coward like me can’t leave himself anywhere to run…

I can file my own taxes, change my own oil, and make my own dentist appointments; all sure signs I’m a “real adult.”

Nobody just becomes an adult because they want to. Sure, people can try to be an adult, but really it’s not something you can control. One day you’re a kid and the next that’s all over and you are an adult. It’s not sad or painful, at least not all the time, but it’s not something you can just will to happen, it just does. So trying to judge yourself on the basis of whether or not you are a real adult is sort of silly, although I’m sure everybody has felt like a “bad” adult, or that they need to “grow up”. But people don’t grow up, do they? No, people don’t grow up, they just…grow.