Such a sad song.

        Take a handful of pills, my pink death, turn music on and up as loud as my headphones can go. Drown my own feelings of failure with someone else's song of success, scream inside this is my suicide anthem. I clean. Yep, anything to keep my mind well blank. Like a suspect shaking, holding a bloody knife, I took a life and now I clean to cover my crime. If I clean the blood stains from their eyes no one will ever know, leave no witnesses, tell no one. I scrub and scrub but the blood only smears and it seems I'm perpetually cleaning my crime scene, removing any signs that death is irreversible. The stains un-cleanable, the anthem forever stuck in my head

Sometimes I wish I were a white crayon, that way no one would use me.

        I can't listen to music, look at pictures, nothing without feeling immensely jealous. I want that. I want something. I want to be something, someone important to someone who is someone. I guess I was fooling myself in thinking that getting close to him could bring out the best in me, it's as if I believed that every inch he was in me was another inch I was closer to becoming what I want to be, instead I just have another mistake left to rot.

Sleep? Oh, how I loathe those little slices of death.

        Anyone out there ever wanted to just stop sleeping because you can't remember your dreams anymore. I used to remember my dreams, when I was younger they were so vivid, lucid even. Is there a purpose for sleeping in which a dream is never had?

This job aint worth a damn.

        Consider this my 2 weeks notice, I'm quitting this life. Look for my formal resignation signed in my own blood.

Diseased.

        I'm dissolved in tears again tonight, I'm not even certain why anymore. I just hurt. Comparable to a deep cavity that grows to be abscessed, I'm unsure where the pain is coming from anymore. It's consuming me, this hurt is a festering mutilation of me, killing by inches. I reach out, hands outstretched, on my tiptoes, for sanity in the form of a hand, I can feel the rigid claws of disease withdrawing me again. This time I was almost close enough, but nowhere near close enough.

The tears, they come.

        Bind my hands to restrain from reaching out, muffle my mouth so I can't betray myself in telling my own secret. I listen to music too loud, for me it's not loud enough. But, no one asks if I'm okay anymore.

        I feel that heat in my eyes, burning every last nerve in my body, you're playing the part of "it" but will you find my hiding place again. I collapse onto the tile. My ritual of pain, I live to worship my self-created, condemned cell. Mascara stains my face but the deep black drops feel more like pin pricks, every tear is painful. In solitude, I cry a silent cry and even that hurts. My heart races, I can hear each weakened beat outside my body. I feel like I can't breathe, I fall to the cold, slide down against the wall, numb takes over once the pain has finished raping me, ravaging my well-being, and violating my lucidity.

You're missing out, really.

        You're no different than any other man, I thought you might have been. I see now that I was wrong about you. Looking into the viewfinder I see now that this mad dash of hearts will end in a photo finish. Good news though, you didn't lose. You tied with the rest of the dogs. What's wrong with me? I know I'm damaged, I could be fixed. You could have been my marksman, was I not worth the time not worth the effort?

        Your dismissal of me was unkind and heartrending. I open the door for you, welcomed you inside with open arms and open legs. I want my fucking key back, this time for me only to hold. I'll bury it deep, never to be found and used again. I will not be used and lost by you again.

Let go.

        Holding on for a life not so dear, the capping of an anguished existence. Stability is crumbling in my grasps, my hold is withering more and more. I don't reach out to him because his hands are calloused and uncaring. Still eluding his brutalized comfort, here I stand on the edge of the edge with gravity craving me. He holds his own sanity, sadistically living without shared pain for what we lost. I let go of that ledge many months ago, I'm still suspended, in between crumbling remains and a fall that's becoming increasingly seducing. Should I feel the wind piercing me to the core? I can see the end rushing faster and faster but still not fast enough. Life for me is death in slow-torturing-motion.

Hot insanity.

        Man is so foolish, thinking that I was a victim of their game. If only they knew they're just mice to me. Unknowingly trapped in my sick way of coping with pain I don't want to feel. I'm both the bait and the captured, they're just the snap of the mousetrap. I wonder how many of them would be so willing to expose their skin to aid in my demise? How turned on would they be then? How hard would their cocks throb with the desire to fuck my rotten insides? Am I still sexy even though I'm not sane?

Can't you feel the heat?

        I could have sworn I heard the past call my name. I turn around, to catch only the smallest glimpse of a smile. I hear him exhale, feel his heat.

My scarlet letter is undeniable.

        There is no finally for me, no cute happy fucking couple pictures. I argue with myself as to whether I care or whether I do not. I think there's still a small shimmer of idiotic hope that I'll be swept off my feet. Logic and experience tells me that I won't be swept anywhere but under the rug, because apparently I am something to be shamed of. A scarlet lover, no one can know. Who will stand for me when I'm under them? No one. I fear and delight in the small fact of knowing that I'm always the fucked and never the loved. Which emotion is stronger? Desire? Or love?

What's meant to be will always find a way.

        I'm in love, sweet sweet sadistic love. Shh, no one can ever know will rest on my lips until I receive my lover's everlasting kiss, together forever in morbidity. Our love is a secret locked away in my insanity. You left me before, I almost had you. I could see you, feel you, taste you in the heavy May night. When I come for you next.. many years or never at all.. I will possess you and passion will end us together forever.

        My lover stays hidden, I lock him away. I just wish I had something to take, something to drink, that would make this love bearable. My family, my friends, they know nothing about my dangerous romance. They have no idea I'm in the grips of a suicidal embrace, I'll be sure to leave them a love letter. And when I feel I'm ready, he and I will run away together. It will be so magical, I may even feel like I'm living. Death is such a flirt.

Trick or treat.

        I can taste of overdose still fresh on my lips, care to kiss me and share in my demise? Or maybe just a kiss good-bye would do. I wonder... has anyone noticed the unmistakable look of dead in my eyes, or maybe noticed that I don't look into theirs? Doubtful says I. Oh why fucking lie, I know they don't because no one can see. I should win an award for best actress for my performance in the hit film "Living". I don't need a Halloween costume for tonight, I'll wear the same mask I wear everyday.

There are worse things than death, such as living.

        Hope you're stronger than I was, when my greatest love had seen it's ending cover, though the book is still pretty vivid, the pages are torn and ripped. And there is no happy ending in sight for me. No one has any idea how deep my well is, and the deeper you get, the colder and darker this place grows. Much like a well, once you've fallen so far there is no climbing out. There is no sunlight, no happiness, no fucking rays of bullshit love to touch my skin. Nothing left to do but tread water constantly trying to keep my head above the water, but I grow tired, and often wish I could throw myself into the sweet relief.

In this world of black and white he was my colored picture.

        The month of July is usually filled with the celebration of our nation's independence. For me, the summer has a more profound meaning. This summer is is a day of chance, mending reanimate destiny, doom ruin.

        It's been such a long time since I last heard from him. Despite my choice, I miss him. At the end of our relationship I tethered in the doorway, un-noticed. Gathering all the courage in me, which wasn't a lot, I pulled the wings from the butterflies which remained in my belly. I realized that postponing the inevitable would likely be more damaging. So I committed the premeditated crime of the worse kind, the breaking of a heart. I attacked much like a rapist, knowing that my actions will forever hurt and scar my victim. For this injustice, I should be convicted and forced to register as a habitual emotional predator.

        Even though said relationship is dead (rest in pieces), the spirit of a love so great and strong will haunt me to my grave. I've arrived un-fashionably late in the wake of loss we've both suffered, and I've signed my name and, my tears in the guestbook. I make my way into the room where the corpse of true love lays rotting, burning the sight and putrid smell of death too soon, into my senses. Every step I take brings me closer to the dearest casket, which holds my decomposing sanity. I walk through the valley of deep shade, to find the closure needed to begin the grieving process.

        I love Kevin and will always pine for him, much like a widow in mourning; I will never completely be over him. We keep our greatest love for a long time; he was and always will be my greatest love. In my darkest hours I visit the graveside of the love and life we shared, the tombstone bears a proverb of emptiness, "I love you".

        I can feel a newborn wave of hurt breaking on the idle seashore of my mind. My single, final wish is that he's in a better place now.