Tag Archives: death


Her front yard was always scattered with blossoms from the neighbors tree. They often offered to rake them up for her, but she always declined. It was like seeing a sea of white and pink, she told me. It was like being in a dream.

Her eyes were always lidded and I think that was her way of living in a half-dream state. The real world was never really her friend. I’m not sure if I really ever was, either.

I remember driving up to the vast white yard, her front door wide open. I found her sleeping in the filed of blossoms; she had been laid out like an angel. I got her back inside but she never seemed to wake up. She was half-asleep. Like always.

It was surprise, of course, but somehow not very surprising at all. She looked just like she always did, like a sleeping angel on the ground, surrounded by her white flower petals. I could feel my chest constrict when I saw her as though I knew before I even touched her. Before I saw the blue tint to her lips, or how her skin was pale, so pale.

The tears took a while to come. So did any emotion, really.

The ambulance was silent when it rolled to a stop. The whole day was like a silent film. I wanted to change the channel but I couldn’t. I stayed seated by the snow angel of blossoms when people entered and exited the house.

They said they had found an empty pill bottle.

I just wish she would wake up. I’ve always been waiting for her to wake up.

Wake up, I pleaded in my head.

Please, wake up.


Terrible Things

They both whisper in your ear, and what does it mean when you choose one over the other because of the way the sound makes your skin prickle, your hair stand on end?

They both sound like love, but maybe that’s not true. A terrible thing is you know nothing of love and one sounds sultry and the other sounds parental. Who are you to know which to follow when you’ve never had a mothers love nor a fathers pride?

Hands can grip your waist and lips can find your neck – after all this time can you yet tell love from lust? You think your beating heart speeds up at everyone one of them because you have so much love to give. A terrible thing is you have never known what love feels like, given or received.

Rejection tastes like a shadow and you give it no heed – there are many others with open arms and pulled down pants. You think they love you and think they want you – a terrible thing is they just want someone to use. So you’re used.

Lips no longer taste like honey and skin no longer feels like a home you could create. You stare into the mirror and look at your face and you can think whatever you want. All of the people you’ve held, all of those whom have shared your bed, you can create something beautiful out of that. A terrible thing is you find yourself heartbroken in the most awful way of never having had love in it in the first place.

The dark coolness in your eyes gives nothing away but sorrow, though it enchants some, it chases most away. Though it’s not like it matters anymore. No fleshy desires bring comfort. A terrible thing is you didn’t know you could feel more alone than being alone, but you find yourself feeling like a ghost.

Who’s to blame you when you find it hard to open your eyes and push food through your lips? Who’s to blame you when Death feels like the only home you’ve ever belonged to? When you drag your hand through the dirt and feel more warmth from that than any body, who’s to blame you when you so crave it desperately, like the seduction of a first lover? A terrible thing is, no one can blame you, but everyone does.

Your head gets heavy and hard to keep up. Your feet hurt and your eyes ache. Your heart throbs at the lack of love to give and take. You can stare into the soft eyes of Death from afar and know it will eventually belong to you. A terrible thing is, you can’t stop, and Death isn’t yet yours.

And what a terrible thing it is.


Folding laundry and thoughts so fluid, so normal
Like it’s a regular thing to think about, like it’s not so scary
Isn’t every breath terrifying? Isn’t waking up every morning hard?
So folding laundry and maybe it is normal:
Thinking of the cowards way out
Because who needs honor in a world so corrupt? Who cares about your next breath?

Sweet Cinnamon and Sour Lemons

Sitting in a diner, it’s a little late and the waiter’s a little distracted but he checks on me every few minutes when he pauses from his phone for a minute. Then he’ll look back down and I’ll continue either looking or sipping at the coffee that’s too black and too bitter but not add anything to it because that’s not why I got this coffee.

I don’t smoke but I wish I had a cigarette just to finish this look I’m imagining I have right now. The black coffee is a little like mud and I cringe when it touches my tongue and I’m glad the waiter hasn’t seen this. I’m picking at a few cold fries I ordered thirty minutes ago and I hear footsteps to the side of me.

A figure walks into my view and now there you are, sitting across from me like it was just yesterday. The sight of you makes my breath catch in my throat and the glint in your eye is still there and it makes my neck heat up and my heart skip a beat.

“How have you been?” You ask with your sweet, low voice. And I tell you I’ve been fine, I’ve missed you.

A soft smile licks your lips and your folded hands are placed on the table, a little nearer to my side and so I put my own folded hands on the table as well. You tell me you’ve missed me, too, and my hair’s gotten so long. Do I like it?

“I’m still getting used to it,” I admit with a breath. I don’t tell you I’m still getting used to you being gone, too. I think you hear the unsaid words anyway when your eyes drop from mine for just a moment. Then they’re up again, staring into mine and your smile grows into something beautiful and sincere and you lean in a little closer still. Your hands are a few inches from mine and I pretend not to notice but I let my fingers creep closer, too.

“Hey, you remember when,” and then you’re gone into old memories and I try to keep my laughs quiet but you and I both know how difficult that is for me. My eyes close and my cheeks get pink and when I open them again your eyes have soft wrinkles around them and you’re looking at me like I’m something special.

No matter how many stories you tell and no matter how much I laugh, no matter how close our hands get and no matter how much further we lean in, we’re still two worlds away. I let myself get pulled by the air around you and I smell a sweet warmth like cinnamon and when my eyes dip down to the table between us, I notice our fingers are barely an inch away. The breath in my throat catches and your words slowly trail off because now you’ve noticed too.

Tears prick my eyes and I try to swallow the lump that’s newly formed. “It’s not fair,” I manage to squeak out between trembling lips. Your jaw clenches and your eyes get serious. “I miss you.” Both of us are looking at the closeness to our hands and we both notice when mine shift just a little bit closer. Just a little further, but not touching. Never touching.

You sigh but you don’t move your hands away. You don’t lean back and in fact, I think you move forward still. “I’m so sorry,” you say so quietly, “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I wish I could – “ and your lift your hand ever so slightly and it passes right through mine. A dam somewhere in my chest bursts and I try to choke back a sob.

“I wish I could take it back, just to touch you one last time.”

And then you’re gone and all I have left are the spits of my heart dripping around me and the cold black coffee and the cold leftover fries.

The cinnamon that was once in the air surrounding me is gone and is now replaced by sour, bitter lemon. A regret so strong I could taste it and that’s the only sign I have that you were ever really here.


I can’t hear her voice in my head any more. I can barely picture her face and if it wasn’t for the picture I have of her, all of the memories of her would be blurred.

I told myself I could never do what she did, I could never hurt my mother like that. I couldn’t rip the hearts of those who loved me into terrible pieces, but with enough time passing and the memories starting to fade, I wonder how long it would take.

How long would it take for my sisters to forget my voice, my face? How long would it take for the tears to stop flowing at my memory and how long would it be before no one could remember what it felt like to hold me in their arms?

When the breeze goes through your hair, how long would it take to not think of it as me passing by?

My body aches at this young age and I tell them I think I’m dying. They laugh and shake their heads but they don’t realize it’s true. They don’t realize that when I say I’m planning on 55, it’s a hope that I even make it that far.

I told myself I could never do that to my mother – it sounds less and less true the more that young face fades from my head.

Ticking Time-Bomb


A bomb in my chest

With a timer I don’t know of

Ticking for so long

It’s like a song I can’t remember

My heart’s in this constant state

Of Russian roulette

Eventually the bullet will win

And the eye of the barrel

Will be at my throat

It’s just a matter of time

Before my thoughts are splattered

And you’ll see them coloring the walls

Super Hero Secrets

So what if I let him touch me a little roughly?
What’s the problem with a few bruises anyway?
It’s art, or that’s how I like to look at it
It’s his love on my skin – it’s his desire
So I keep going until I clench the sheets
With balled hands trying not to push him away
What’s another secret to add to my list?

My fingers touch the surface of things I’d like to have
And I see myself taking them in ways that go unseen
My hearts speeds up a little at the added pressure in my bag
Teeth bite my tongue to keep the giddy smile away
It’s the only time I feel triumphant, like I’ve won
And really, what’s wrong with feeling like that?

The sting feels nice going down my throat
It makes me smile when I think about it and no one knows
I only drink socially, I say, though of course I’m lying
I drink when I can see the moon, when I can see the stars
When I can feel my heart beating against my ribcage

Doctors give me sugar-coated pills that go down without water (vodka)
I roll them on my tongue for the sweet taste and when it’s gone
Well, who cares if I have one more, one more, just one more?
I feel music in my head and twinkles against every inch of my skin
And what’s wrong with feeling like a super hero?

So I can’t feel my fingers any more
Or my toes or my lips or my ears or – anything –
And I touch the object I took the other day, only I can’t feel it
And there is no giddy feeling in my stomach from it
And I don’t get the aching feeling from the scratches on my back
On my sides on my stomach on my legs
There is no sting from my drinks and I can’t taste the sugar
I can’t lift my head and why did the twinkles leave my skin?
Suddenly my eyes are closing and I realize there are tears on my face
And I don’t know how I got this way and I only want to feel better
Except that’s just another lie I’ve added to that list
All I want it so feel like a super hero again
Instead I feel like one is dying inside of me, dying around me

But no one will see the super hero I was
Because there are no twinkles on my skin, or music in my head
And there are scratches that show my weakness
And there are the contents of my sick stomach on the floor
The pills are swimming in the alcohol and I just wonder
Why that hadn’t dissolved and just done their job correctly
But then I think, maybe that’s because they actually did