Fried
I sit here wondering
"How the hell did I end up here?" and
"Was she really worth it?"
In my six by eight space
I contemplate what it will be like.
Not spending my days with her
Gnawing at me every day,
Instead spending them waiting for the inevitable.
I always suspected her infidelity, but my suspicions were never confirmed until a friend spilled the beans.
No one thought I'd ever walk away.
They were right. I didn't.
Instead I extinguished her like an old cigar.
Had anyone asked, I'd have scoffed at the idea
that I could commit such a brutal act.
However, as I sit here waiting
for a thousand volts to course through my body,
quelling my existence on this earth,
I'll do so with a quiet comfort that
We've both gotten.....
just what we deserved.
Peel Back Your Skin
Don’t cry for me
everybody dies
in their own time.
Impending death
does not scare me
going to a better place.
I live or die
by the choices I made.
Lethal injection
not an execution
but a murder!
I am not ending
but beginning.
I am afraid
to transition alone.
Will you be there
with me?
I am sorry
that I killed
your brother -
hope this brings closure.
I see sadness drip
from my family’s eyes but
I have peace in my heart
am ready for next journey.
I have new pants
with a zipper and buttons,
orange juice to drink.
Not a loss but a win!
We are not
that much different.
I am you
and you are me.
Peel back your skin
and you will see.
Love Wins… Doesn’t It?
"You know, maybe we should kill ourselves." I say quietly, resting my head on his shoulder. "It'd be a lot easier that way."
I'm flung upward as he sits up, the covers of the bed now piled on our waists. He looks at me, and the bewildered face he makes is unbearable, so I look away and busy my eyes on the bare, grimy white walls littered with holes. I'm not even sure you could call them white anymore.
"Don't say that." He says pointedly, as if that was the final word. "Don't you ever say that, it's not right."
"I don't know… I guess… I guess. Forget I said anything." I ripped the blankets off my legs and swung them off the bed, desperate to leave the conversation. As I stand up, I feel his hand wrap around my wrists. "Let go." I whisper.
"No."
I pull violently, trying to slip from his grasp, but he was stronger than me. He'd always been stronger. He grabbed my other wrist and I thrashed harder. Suddenly tears were streaming down my face and I kicked. "Just let go." I choke between sobs.
"Look at me." He says. I can hear strain in his voice. "LOOK AT ME."
I was shocked that he yelled. He had never yelled at me, only at the people who told us our love was wrong on the streets, no matter how many times I had told him to ignore them.
His hand wrapped around me chin, forcing me to face him. I could barely see his cotton tank top, the same grimy white as the walls. "No, look me in the eyes."
I couldn't bear to look him there, so I closed my eyes instead, tears still streaming down.
"LOOK AT ME DAMMIT."
And suddenly he's on top of me, my arms pinned over my head on the pillows. I looked up at his shadowy, smeared figure and sobbed.
"Don't you get it? We're lost- a hopeless case. It's not gonna get better. There's nothing left to do about it anymore and even if there was I wouldn't have the strength to fight it. There might still be air in my lungs and spit in my mouth but there's no bounce to my step or light in my eyes. I'm dead already, inside and out and there's nothing that's gonna change that anymore. And I know you're in a similar state." I finish. "We should just go."
He's quiet for awhile and I'm stuck with my sobs. Snots running out my nose and the pillow was soaked.
"No. No. No." He says it repeatedly like a madman, each time getting louder. "No. No. NO. NO. NO! NO!
"DON'T YOU GET IT? THAT'S NOT AN OPTION FOR US AND IT CERTAINLY ISN'T FOR YOU. WE'RE NOT JUST GOING TO GIVE UP BECAUSE SUDDENLY YOU'RE READY TO. YOU'RE NOT GOING TO DO THIS TO YOURSELF AND YOU CERTAINLY AREN'T GOING TO DO THIS TO ME." He broke off as his voice broke.
"We've just got to hang on a little longer. It's got to be better, I promise."
***********************************
"You know, maybe we should kill ourselves." I heard a whisper beside me. "It'd be a lot easier that way."
What did he just say?
I sat up quickly, startled and turned to look at him. He's staring off at the walls. How come he won't look at me?
"Don't say that. Don't you ever say that, it's not right." And I meant it, I didn't want him to ever think that way.
"I don't know… I guess… I guess. Forget I said anything." He tried to leave the bed, but I wasn't through yet. People didn't just say they wanted to kill themselves for no reason. I reached over and took ahold of his wrist. "Let go."
"No." I didn't want him to leave.
He started trying to slip his wrist away, but I wasn't going to let him. His wrist was so thin and small my finger touched each other when they wrapped around it. I grabbed his other one, desperate to make him look at me. Didn't he see I needed him to?
This only seemed to encourage him. He started thrashing harder than before and before I knew it he was crying.
"Just let go." He choked.
"Look at me." I say, trying not to break down. I needed to stay strong- not just for me but for him, too. I hoped he hadn't heard it. "LOOK AT ME."
His eyelids opened, revealing his shiny, brown eyes I always craved to look into. He wasn't looking at me though, rather at my chest. I had the sense that I startled him. "No, look me in the eyes."
He closed his eyes. I could barely see the tear stains on his face shine in the dim lighting. I needed him to look at me. I needed him to.
"LOOK AT ME DAMMIT."
I pushed him down onto the bed and pinned his arms above him. I looked down at him to see his eyes were open.
"Don't you get it? We're lost- a hopeless case. It's not gonna get better. There's nothing left to do about it anymore and even if there was I wouldn't have the strength to fight it. There might still be air in my lungs and spit in my mouth but there's no bounce to my step or light in my eyes. I'm dead already, inside and out and there's nothing that's gonna change that anymore. And I know you're in a similar state." He paused. We should just go."
Why was he saying things like this? Why was I not enough to keep him wanting to live? He's got to be lying- this's got to be a dream. I had to be… it had to be…
"No. No. No." I meant to say it in my head but the look on his face told me I had done otherwise. "No. No. NO. NO. NO! NO!
"DON'T YOU GET IT? THAT'S NOT AN OPTION FOR US AND IT CERTAINLY ISN'T FOR YOU. WE'RE NOT JUST GOING TO GIVE UP BECAUSE SUDDENLY YOU'RE READY TO. YOU'RE NOT GOING TO DO THIS TO YOURSELF AND YOU CERTAINLY AREN'T GOING TO DO THIS TO ME." He couldn't do this… could he? The thought of losing him made my voice break so I stopped yelling. I had more to say, so much more, but I couldn't get my mouth to voice it.
I settled for a simple phrase instead.
"We've just got to hang on a little longer. It's got to be better, I promise."
It had to…
Hadn't it?
Open the letter, dumbass.
I love how much of a bitch you are right now.
Something you need to know immediately: you’re not special. Stop thinking you’re above everyone, you pretentious shit. Being different is great, but you’re trying too hard.
I know you like making life hard, and you say you enjoy stress, but those things come out of your mouth because you were spoon fed since birth. Wait a few more years, shits about to get real. You’ll be addicted to crying (the part where you quietly sniffle towards the end is your favorite), suicide becomes an option ( your 2nd attempt is the funniest), but when you come across the secret to living a decent life, you’ll be fine.
A few things:
Stop buying lottery tickets; you have a better chance of dying choking on your breakfast.
You’re in a relationship, right? She cheats on you, bud.
Stop being so nosy. Peoples lives are boring, just like yours.
Apologize for the shit you’ve done, even if you don’t want to. Stop your addictions now, even if you don’t think its possible. And tell your dad you love him before he’s gone, even if you don’t understand it.
Live longer than me, punk.
What Does It Mean To Me?
Failure is every time I try and wear something nice to school, in hopes someone might just talk to me, and then it coming to the end of the day and no ones even batted and eye.
Failure is every time I plan to tell my mother I want to transition, but my nerves get the best of me, and so I don't.
Failure is every fucking time I try to get help for my suicidal thoughts, but I decide that my problems are too petty and not worthy enough for thinking that.
The Hand
Death dealt the cards Jack had shuffled. His hands weren’t bony or pale; they were large hands with hardened callouses. His fingers flew gracefully, everything about the motion casual and relaxed.
“I need more time.”
Death smiled. It was a genuinely kind expression. It made his eyes crinkle warmly. They were blue like the sky, and there was nothing hollow about them. His face was fully fleshed, albeit chiseled. He wore a simple plaid button-up shirt and blue jeans. He smelled of a subtle cologne.
“That is why we are here, is it not?” He replied. “So you may buy yourself more time?”
Jack trembled. He picked up his hand, eyes flying over the cards. He looked better equipped to the name of Death than the entity before him. He was shriveled in his white hospital gown, his bald head gleaming under the single light hanging from the ceiling. A diaper was wrapped around his waist because he could no longer control his bowels.
He was thirty four.
“If I win,” he whispered. His tongue flicked over his lips like a worm checking for birds. “If I win, I get more time?”
Death fanned out his cards. They were spaced perfectly, and his kind eyes moved over them without giving anything away. “That is correct,” he replied. “Five more years added onto your life.”
Jack began to tremble harder. He felt the fear down to his bones. He felt wetness seep into the godawful diaper, smelled the sharpness of urine. Death did not flinch. Their hands moved in unison, and he felt as though he had no control over the motion of his own arm.
He had three tens. A three of a kind.
Death had a flush.
The tears immediately began to run hot down his cheeks. “One more,” he rasped. “Please, please one more.”
Death’s blue eyes watched his face. He said nothing. The silence made him angry, and he stood, slamming his fists against the table so the cards shook and tumbled over the edge.
“It’s not fair! I…I’m not ready to die!”
Death continued to watch him. He reached out for a card and begin to spin it slowly, end over end, just fast enough that Jack couldn’t make out what it was. Still he said nothing.
But an ashtray appeared in the middle of the table.
Jack stared at it. The tears dammed up, and he felt a knot form in his throat. The ashes were full to the brim, nearly overflowing.
“How long would it take to fill that?” Death murmured.
Jack swiped his hands over his face. “A day,” he replied. “Maybe.”
The ashtray disappeared. In its place bloomed a bottle of rum, the amber liquid inside sloshing gently. It was half empty.
Death didn’t need to ask. Jack whispered, “One night.”
Sheets of paper unrolled across the table’s surface. He couldn’t bear to look at the doctor’s signatures, the warning signs, the omens from check-ups that he always ignored.
Silence reigned again until the bottle cracked. The glass fractured, and its contents spilled out, seeping into the paper like blood. Jack sat down again and raised his gaze back to the man across from him.
The spinning card came to a stop. The Jack of Diamonds stared out from it, boasting his own face.
“You shuffled this deck, Jack. You controlled the cards you were given. You were the master of your own fate.” For just a moment, a fleeting second, he thought he saw pain flash across the man’s kindly face. “Not everyone is so privileged.”
Death leaned forward. The card grew bigger, and the light faded as it encompassed his vision.
“The hand you were dealt was the one you made.”