you ask,
how much i drink in a week.
i say, you don’t want to know —
and you hold me
as the truth splinters
through my ribs.

then you walk me
to your car,
drive me home.
make me tell you
about drinking in silence,
in secret, alone.

but you already know.
you needed me to say it.

you want me medicated.
you want me to get help.
speak to someone,
anyone.
you can’t witness anymore
as i’m losing myself.

i don’t want you to see me like this.
i don’t want anyone to.
a part of me still resists,
still says it isn’t true.

but i am an alcoholic.
only at twenty-four.
the worst part is,
i think i’ve known all along —
i just kept thinking
if i stayed quiet,
it might stay small.

A warrior in a deep thicket,
where the path lies hidden,
thoughts are buried in shadows.

Legs hang heavy,
arms bear carved stories,
eyes—emptied of light—
still search for a road unseen.

I seemed to be on a good curve toward healing
Everything was falling into place
Then a wave came
and washed it all away
It’s what the doctors call
ICD F33

sometimes
i promise, it is only sometimes
i would like to be in pain
and not the kind
where it's tearing at your skin
or the steady thrum of a headache
no, i need it to be loud
and sharp
as if there were jagged edges
worming their way into me
through me
burrowing into my lungs
so i hesitate to take a breath
even though it is essential
for my survival
a pain so desperate, so consuming
that i contemplate
giving in
no, i should call it what it is
giving up

i want it to leave hollow graves
shallow graves
in my bones
where the blood will pool
mixing in with whatever
anguish and despair
i have collected
i have lived with
stored within me
because i never knew
where else to keep it
i could never find another
empty house
and my pages were leaking ink

and so giving in to that pain
those jagged edges
is the only possible release
i can think of
the only justification
for abandoning the acceptance
of the absurd
the only way i will feel
past the futility of
sunken days and soulless eyes

Shoot the bird in the foot
Let the sin drip down your chin
You've downed your prey
And held them at bay.
Now sink your fangs into flesh and blood
And pierce the veins
With their flowing crimson.

The mess before you
Feathers strewn about
Clean and white and dotted with red.
Doesn't their fear astound you
The beating of a heart in their breast
Dark eye does dart around
And nails scratch for any grip.

Don't you tear into them more
And revel at the meal?
The way their screams part from their lips
Like an innocent bird
What have they done to deserve this?

Mortal bones break
Mortal flesh tears
Mortal blood does weep.
Does the crimson not shine in the light
Like an expensive wine in a fantasy's delight?

It's blue inside
Not red.
It's white
Not red.
The flesh falling away from the bone
With phalanges exposed to the cold night air.
I saw it happen,
When you peeled the skin away
The layer of white like that of a peeled apple
being prepared for a pie.

When you pierced the cheek with your sharp white points.
When your lips graced the curve of the neck and suckled until crimson spilled.
The velvety black inside your mouth,
Corrupted with the scarlet red
of fresh blood from the vein in which it came.

Does it not bother you?
When you dismantle your prey as though you are a bird of the night
And them a sleepy songbird wishing for a roost?

Hunger.
It must burden you so
To blink when a heart beats and roars
And to hold back the tempest inside
Lest you expose your most private secret in front of the crowds.
How I wish it does so.
Forever.
May you never feel the joy of taking the lives of them all at once.
May you cower in the darkness
And hide within the deepest shadows
Not because the sunlight burns,
No, because the men will hunt you and make your kind known as they sharpen their wooden spears.
And none of you will be safe again.

Bleed your bird
Drain your victim
They are perhaps helpless alone
But the cluster of many is the terror you shall know, forevermore.

Do you remember
The last time you ate ice cream without feeling the need to surrender?
The last time you stepped on a scale
Without the number determining whether you pass or fail?

Do you remember
The last time you truly smiled without it feeling dismembered?
The last time you felt true joy and delight
Without you and your face having a fight?

Do you remember
The last time you got mad and didn’t get yelled at for your “temper?”
When were were young and naive
Without the fear of how you’re perceived?

I doubt it.
But now you find any excuse to jump into the pit.
You constantly spiral,
Not thinking about you’re survival.

Go to sleep,
knowing
you did enough—
enough to deserve
the cold side of the pillow,
after all the muddy waters
trying to drown you.
Go to sleep,
knowing your name
is in that special someone’s mind.
Someone’s thinking about you.

—

Go to sleep,
because that text
from your mother
saying “Good morning!”
is too special
not to wake up to.
She waits for your reply too—
fearing,
hoping
it isn’t the last.

Don’t make her feel that pain—
the fear of realizing
you aren’t here anymore.

Don’t let her hear that phone ring
with the news
you were found—
lifeless.

Her world will crumble,
’cause really,
you were what kept it together.
Now,
you’re what left her paralyzed—
unable to speak,
unable to feel.
Trembling
when someone says your name.

She’ll second-guess every tear
as she replays
the last time she saw you.

Was that soft smile
you always gave—
just a lie?

She wears your favorite perfume,
but never tells anyone
it was yours.

“She should’ve called more,
visited more,
asked more questions...”
is all she can think,

as she picks out the flowers
for your funeral.
Even chooses your favorite song
for the ceremony
honoring your name—
but she can’t bear
to hear it anymore.

—

The extra plates,
the empty chairs
at your mom’s house
feel a little heavier.
But she still sets the table for you,
as if you were coming
for dinner.

—

Go to sleep.
You said you’d hang out,
grab coffee
with your best friend.
Go on that date
you set up
with the girl
you’ve crushed on since high school.
Hold her hand.
Eat chocolate-covered strawberries
under the night sky.
“It’s not time to go yet”
echoes in your mind.

—

You found purpose in her eyes—
the slight smiles,
the quiet giggles
that made the void
feel less like a trap.
Her words wrap around you,
asking you to stay.

—

Go to sleep.
There’s your favorite dessert
still in the fridge.
Your favorite band
plays in your city tomorrow.
Your mom got you tickets.
You always wanted to see them—
even as a kid.
Are you really going to let him—
that little, happy child
you once were—
fade away?

Do it for him.

—

Are you really gonna let go—
let go of his hand again?
Just like when he was small—
won’t you be there
for him anymore?
Will you let him cry,
alone—
on the days
he needed you?

—

To remind him:
“You don’t need to cry anymore.”

So if nothing else,
sleep for the little child
inside of you.
If nothing else,
build something
he can call a home—
a life
he always imagined.

—

You’re the only one
he ever trusted.
Don’t let go.
Stay with him.
Maybe you’ll see him
in your dreams,
showing you
what lies ahead.

You owe him tomorrow.