Relapse

It isn’t her fault, please don’t blame her,
She’s resisted so long, the days have blurred.
It’s the voices she hears, everyday in her head,
She’s deciding now, she might be better off dead.

“You emo, you faggot, you whore, you slut.”
Why can’t they all just keep their mouths shut?
Don’t mess around with her, when she says she will,
Don’t think she’s joking, when she says she’ll kill.

Not the assholes at school, or the ones guarding her ward,
The one she’ll murder is herself, wielding her razor like a sword.
As the blade tap dances across her skin,
She feels the pain not on her arm, but deep within.

Soon the pain subsides, but she’s losing her mind,
Her vision’s going black, but she thinks she’ll be fine.
She closes her eyes, leaning against the pillow,
The red trickles down, from her wrist to her elbow.

The medics rush in, just a little too late,
She had already left, death calls checkmate.
It isn’t my fault, please don’t blame me.
I’ve resisted so long, but I want to be free.

The List

Here is a list of things I would like to throw out of the window from my apartment on the 13th floor.

My phone.
Even though it enables me to communicate with my friends
I’ve spent enough time waiting by it for your response
I wouldn’t mind being lonely if it means this desperation would be over

My cigarettes.
Although I love them, they just remind me of you
The smell of smoke and mints, your own personal cologne
The remembrance will just bring back the exasperations I’m trying to drive away

My guitar.
Or should I say yours since you left it here
The acoustic stringed instrument you’ve used many a time
Teaching me what it feels like to have the musical talent you have

Your leather jacket.
The one I borrowed but never returned
I’m sure though, that you have others
You’ll be able to replace it as easily as you’ve replaced me

And lastly,
You.
If you ever come back around.

Missing Her

He would think of her at the oddest times
After his shower, when he drys his hair
And catches a subtle hint of her perfume
Buried in the towel

When he picks up a pen
And gets reminded of her
Sitting at his desk
Locking her thoughts away in a black notebook

He remembers how she behaves
When she gets hit with an idea
The way she would unexpectedly rush out of the bathroom
Her wet hair dripping water onto the floor
To jot down her inspirations with ecstasy etched on her features

He also thinks of her at night

The times where he would wake up at 2am
To find her sobbing silently
Eyes filled with tears and despondence

The stygian blackness of the night
A requirement for her vulnerable side to emerge
Shadows formed from candlelight
Transforming into shadows tearing up her mind

“It’s okay”
She’ll whisper
When she notices he’s awake
“Go back to sleep”

He misses her.