I think I was pretty once,
A really long time ago–
–time has stretched on since.

It was before I stopped cutting my hair
And grew out straggled ends resemblant of straw,
Vacant, desolate tree branches in winter,
Dead or dying,
Certainly no longer caring.

It was before I stopped smiling,
Lips dried out and permanently pressed
Into a rigid line,
Laugh-lines faded from lack of use,
And dimples that haven’t seen daylight in decades.

It was before the storm clouds
Rolled in over my blue eyes,
And with them demons
That gluttonously gorge themselves
On any ounce of light
That tries to break through,
Dark ravines hanging beneath them
Against skin that’s abandoned all color
And life.



I am tired
Of getting out of bed
And the heavy darkness
That hangs beneath
My foggy eyes
When it’s been another night
Of the wrong kind of sleep.
I am tired of showering
Only to drag my feet
Through pits of mud
All day
Every day.
I am tired of trying
Or caring
About what happens if I don’t.
I am tired of pretending
Like all of this shit
Adds up to some larger goal,
A bigger picture
That I can’t see
And am tired
Of having to imagine.
I am tired of the zombie
That stares back at me
In the mirror each morning,
Not energy, not happiness,
But motivation
To keep fighting
To stay awake
When I have just grown
Of everything.


It’s so peaceful here.
My feet are burning,
Like when we’d run
As children,
Barefoot and carefree,
From house to house
And tree to tree,
Across blacktop in the summer,
Through snow in the winter,
And then they fall numb.
My hands feel dry,
Like when they would ride waves
Of air from the car window,
Skin cracking,
But I was laughing,
But now the feeling is gone.
My face hurts,
Like when we’d get in fights,
Pelting each other with chunks of ice,
And then get even,
Rubbing each other’s faces
In soft snow
That always felt harder than it was.
Now that’s gone too,
As the last of the warmth
Rises from my body
Like steam,
And all that’s left
Is nothingness.

An Invisible Monster

In the midst of the night
My bedroom light is on.
Would have sworn I’d turned it off,
But perhaps I was wrong.
I shake beneath my covers,
My eyes flicking from
The shadows in each corner
As though they might come
Alive, to get me.
No, it’s not possible,
My mind reassures me,
Until, comes upon the table,
A steady three knocks
As though from a fist.
I am alone in this room,
So what causes this?
Now, from the walls,
It pounds in my ears.
Knock! Knock, knock!
How I wish there was, here,
Another to confirm
That these things I feel
Are not some mental illness;
They are actually real.
I need someone here
To cradle me and say,
“I feel it too;
You’re not insane.”
Now, a sudden weight falls
Heavy, upon my legs.
I can feel it crawl
‘Cross the surface of my bed.
It lays on my chest
And I cannot move.
I could not get up,
Should I even want to.
Somehow I still feel
The illusion of safety
In hiding beneath my covers
Despite my, now, facing
The invisible monster
Who strikes in the dark,
His alcoholic breath
Enough to stop my heart.
I pull the covers closer,
Leaving no room for air,
Hoping the intoxicants
Can’t get to me in here.
I have sudden fear
That it has crawled under
The covers, to join me.
I begin to wonder
If I can ever escape
A monster I can’t see.
A scream begins to build
Deep, inside of me.
But no sound emerges
When I open my mouth.
I’m trying to get help, but,
If I can’t scream, how?
I grab the pocketknife
From my bedside table,
Struggling to keep
My shaking hand stable.
I wait for the monster
To make it’s next move.
As soon as it does,
I shall strike it through.
But the monster does something
I did not expect:
It seeps into my bloodstream,
Intending to infect
My thoughts and my actions.
It must come out!
I make my next move
Without a shred of doubt.
Blood creeps from my skin;
I swear I can see
The monster, with it,
Crawling out of me.
At last, relief.
The monster is gone.
I try not to think,
But for how long?

The Scarlet Snowflake

The snow was stained red
On a gray, December night.
Not an hour before,
That snow had been white.

It floated from the heavens,
down, to the earth.
It had such high hopes
of finally achieving worth
for itself or the public.
Maybe then they’d accept
it amongst themselves,
but instead it was wrecked.
It should have seen it coming
when it tried to be rain.
Now it will never
be white again.
It’s coated in the blood
of its wounded other self.
Why couldn’t it have seen
all its own wealth?
Its shimmery surface
with the sun’s reflection
and the sparkling view
of its quiet perfection.
Instead, it tried to be
something it was not.
What does a transparent
and plain, little drop
have to compare
to the intricacies
of a glimmering star?
It, now, forever carries
the mark of that night
that will not be forgotten.
The scar it received,
so ugly and rotten,
will be a constant reminder
of its mistake that night,
to itself and the public,
never out of sight.

The snow was stained red
On a gray, December night.
Not an hour before,
That snow had been white.


Bright red,
It slips down my side.
Into my head,
It plagues my mind.
I want to be dead;
Why am I alive?
I don’t have the strength
to make things right.

It burns through my flesh.
Anything I have left.
Always toying
With wishes of death.
To you, whom I love
it can’t be expressed.

I can’t stand straight.
I keep waking
To always be late.
Inside, I am breaking
Beneath the pressure of fate.
There is not enough time
to fix my mistakes.

Eyes closed,
It’s time to leave.
Blood flows
From under my sleeves.
How I hope
That you will not grieve.
There’s just nothing left,
in which I can believe.