The pain would split me in two if I let it. If I gave it access to my insides. Split me right open. Turn me inside out. Leave me no safe place to hide. I can feel it coming in around me. Closing in on me. I can feel it surrounding everything. When it feels hard to breath. When you turn the music up a little more loudly. All I know is suffering. I don’t want this suffering. All I know is suffering. Not this time. I won’t let you in. I won’t let you win. I don’t want to grieve anymore. I’m so tired of it. My body has dropped down on the floor, as I sit and write this. My body isn’t with me anymore.

I love you. I’m scared you’re going to die. And I’m scared that I’ll never say this to you before you do. I worry about being too dramatic. How pathetic is that? I worry more about being over dramatic— while you remain killing yourself every day. Playing Russian roulette with a crack pipe. Which line will be lethal? Which relapse will be the last time?


I know beautiful things are going to happen.

I don’t know how.

I know lovely places exist… beyond the words I have to describe them with.

I don’t know where.

I know all the questions turn to answers and all the pieces start to fit.

I don’t know when.

I don’t know -when-what-where–how-why-

But I know it.