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ART
your eyes slit these wrists and kill me so much better
than i ever did
SAD POETRY FEBRUARY 2005
this motel of a heart tends to invite far too many vacancies.
am i alive at all. belonging to anything other than this silence. sitting here. staring at the stop sign above my grave.
i didn't mean to, but i became. the kind of person that knows themselves so well that everyone else, they can only be strangers.
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sometimes
i think it would be nice to be fragile. then maybe once in a while someone would
be gentle
i feel so lost, especially when the sun shines, that
it accentuates how dark, how dark is my life.