Raphael

I sit     examine words as cries
your voice is floating up, up
and away right past my downward eyes.
Hushed struggle from behind the door
the closet rattles on the screen, flashflash
light comes screaming on your floor.
Lion Faux! you shout, spit waiting at
the edge of your lips, and by the life in my bones,
I will not kiss. I say     correct your fatal mistake
"Fauxlion, chéri." But
the teeth are very real indeed.

Galileo

Wishing on the stars we fall
but earth is just a battlefield.
Any man who dreams so tall
has made a deathly deal.

Knots and hiding

I imagine after all this time I've spent thinking, I'd have figured it out by now. Worked the infinite knots into separate lines of logic. But all I've untangled is my fears and failures, and it seems the farther in I go, the more of them I find. I remember from grade four when my teacher was reading us that book about the boy who ran away. In his comfortingly strong voice, he'd said, "And he sat there until every last knot was untangled, braving the winds from the top of the building." I remember picturing myself up there, picking the string like meat on bones, pulling and unwinding until it lay before me, obvious and straight and normal.
The reality I face now is a lot like those winds, fraying my sanity in much the same way the wind would toss your hair. It's unwinding my logic while I work never-ending hours to pull it all together. Maybe the knots are the problem: while I think untangling them will be the very answer I'm searching endlessly for, maybe (just maybe though, because I really can't be sure at all), the knots are what I've tied together all ready, and by untangling them, I'm only making a bigger mess of everything.
What I have figured out is that reality is winding me up until the point where the string snaps, or I go flying. That my loved ones (or twos, or threes) are only being further destroyed because of me, and I'm not helping at all.
I think I have had the answers from the very start. Somewhere that is nowhere, that would hold me ever dearly. A cabin in the woods with all the loneliness I want. That's the only reality that will not hurt, and my instincts to prepare for it have been the only thing I will ever do right.
If I ever find someone who could love me enough to hide out in the cold with me, then I will be happy. Make no mistake; that is something I've been searching endlessly for too. Just...something I never honestly believed I would find.

Notes

"Don't open it unless I'm dead," I say. Every word is what you'll have left to eat away. 
And that is exactly how it should be by now, after all, what else do writers do?
That's my last chance for solace, and the last closure, for you. 

That dream again

Another dream where I'm fearless,
or closer yet to it.
Amends with my old mistakes are made
all congregating in the same general castle.
The stairs are never-ending
up and up crooked edges from wall to wall
and then the purple doorways
with over-sized metal doors.
A million broken school desks
and flutes guitars and notes.
This is the music room, no doubt.
I don't have a music class.
I leave her there, wish her luck.
And again my classes go unattended because
I don't care for their lessons much at all.
She walks me away from room 208
all the way up in the 300's,
and we rush through the halls with their glass doors
and glass rooms and teachers and lines
and tiles.
But then she's gone, because she doesn't belong here.
"Why were you gone?"they ask,
the boys who really fucked me over.
To put it quietly, with shame I say
"I was mentally unstable."
It's sad and pathetic and I go out to smoke
and the school is left once again
restored as the castle I'll never see.

I've had the dream again, you understand.
And every time I do I feel a little more sick.
But what can you do?
We are who we are.

I'm hangin' in there, don't you see...

Someone someone talk to me
Someone someone set me free
Tell me nothing's really wrong
Tell someone's not still gone
Someone someone help me out
Grab my paws, my claws, my snout
Lift the powdered poison cake
Trick the monsters and the hate
Someone someone I'm still here
My world is dark, my thoughts aren't clear
Creepers loom once they've attacked
And I fear I'm being tracked
Someone someone I'm so scared
My legs won't walk I've been impaired
Like there's something in my head
Sane's a sense I lost instead
Crazy nights and crazy days
There's no light in drunken haze
But is it drink or is this drugs?
Lions! and Tigers! and Bears! and Bugs!
Someone someone time is quick
Pull me up out of this trick
Everything's so fuck fuck FUCK
I'm so FUCK I'm giving UP

Dear

You're one of the many ghosts that haunt me, but I suppose I don't mind seeing as I did still get those last fleeting days with you. What we had was something I waited years for. Essentially, it should have been my entire world. 

Should have, but something twisted it's golden little grin, and swept you off your feet faster than the earth could open up to swallow you whole. And I'm often reminded of you in the small, quiet moments. An example is months ago, the walk I took after almost running away for the third time that week. My sister told me to kill myself, I greatly considered her suggestion. 

I know, the air was cold and I'd forgotten a sweater, something I never, ever do. And Calio...I'm not sure if that's how you spell it, but that's how it sounds. He interrupted, asking if I'd mind if he walked beside me. 

One of the nicest and most heartbreaking moments I remember, the same exact way I felt when you Hugged me. I capitalize that word because I consider it the name of one of the most important events in my life. Sure, a hug isn't really much of anything, but that hug brought you into my life, and my life solely. 

Well, the point is Calio spent the hour telling me what a beautiful girl I was. As well as asking why I was still alone. This was after you were gone, of course. 

I remember telling him that I just...hadn't found someone yet, and thinking, well I had, but he's gone. We sat on the rocks near the water and watched the waves collide with stone just below us. And no matter how nice this all was, how candid this moment...it reminded me too much of you. 

The lovely things in life make me want to cry now. 

You really have done a nice thing for me. You know that? You made everything bearable, and then you killed yourself. And no, I can't bare it at all. 

"I have experienced instances where I feel both high (elated) and low (depressed) at the same time."


Dark and dingy 
night and city
happy as it goes.
Light and flying
rope the sky in
of frowns we are composed. 


Tight together
rope around
this is to feel tied down. 
Like an ocean
scattered sailor
it feels like this to drown. 

These words say all the grief I felt when I heard he killed himself. They're telling someone -maybe someone I know, or maybe a complete stranger- that I haven't been all there, since.
They say that it's hard to forget, and impossible to remember.

But Summerland is perfect when you need a break, I imagine. Summerland is the perfect break--

of skin. Or was it air?

Too late

When you get lost like that, you think maybe after a very long while you should call for help. The night sets in with those cold steps and someone's behind you, matching your pace you run.
Breathing comes out in icy puffs the whole world is blue
and you don't see anyone coming to save you.
When you get lost like that you start to imagine all the things you could tell people, and all the lovely, caring reactions you might get. They might ask you how you suffered for so long, so tough. Or if you need them to stay up with you all night. Are you still afraid, they might wonder.
When you're so lost and there's dirt under you nails. Or maybe it's blood, but either way it's filthy like the woods and the dirt paths you're walking. Like the soil that's sinking, and you're drowning. But that's wrong, because drowning would indeed imply that you were fighting in some very small effort. A kick, a scream, even the realization of your metal lungs being heated by dragon's fire as they cave in from trying to be less empty.
At this point it's just numb sinking, a sad acceptance of the fact that you're going under. But hardly sad at all anymore because that was last year's pain.
This year...or has it been longer? Either way there is only fear. That stark, rigid bite on your neck but you can't turn around. For some reason you're stuck in the childish belief that if you can't see it it can't see you.
The same reason you don't look over your shoulder when running up the basement stairs.

You're thinking of all the wonderful things people might console you with if you were to ever get out. And that's pathetic. One hundred percent, of course. But when you're dying you do like to think of all the moments you could have lived.
There's the owls, such lonely sounds at night, with the wolves howling loudly. And that's your sorrow echoing from the pain you can't seem to feel.

But maybe I shouldn't be saying you. Maybe, in reality, I should be saying me. Maybe no one else will ever think this, these thoughts. But I'd like to think that no matter how big the labyrinthine, with it's winding trees and paths that lead you in circles...no matter how big it is, or how small, there are others scattered around in there, somewhere.
Maybe I'm not alone in here. And even if there isn't a chance for me to ever find someone...

Even if it would take a million years I don't have, there is that small hope that I could.

Even if it's impossible, hope keeps you going.
And when you're sinking, it is rather nice to believe things could have gone better. It's sweet and mellow to think that your fate wasn't this sod-fucking-terrible.

That you did have a chance, at some point.

But now no one's listening and I guess it's too late.

Fear goes marching on

Stand a little taller on the tips of your feet but

fears goes marching on. 

Wonder how to put the words so

they'll seem a little softer but

left, right, left, right beats softly in your ears. 

Yes sir, I am having trouble

convincing myself to leave the house. 

For now that's a-ok, but

over my shoulder there's screams and there's claws

and do you mind if I run

run run

as fast as I can?

Swallow

Electroden down the miles, windows wide open. Blasting through the signs of happiness, we're all going to hell.

I suppose

Yes, it is hard. Even just living, there's so much baggage that comes along with life, and I'm sure after a while you'd love to jump on a train and leave it at the station. Move on, so to speak. But there's so much anxiety in just doing that. In leaving everything behind. Everything. 
That's where your possessive fears come along, reminding you of that time in childhood when you lost your favourite toy and never got it back. When it was gone forever and you cried because you loved it, even if sometimes the batteries would run out, or the wheels would break off, or the paint would chip. Because that was your favourite, and it meant so much to you. Even if a hundred or so other kids had one just like it, yours was special. 
That's when you're thinking about pulling out of the station for good, no time to turn back, and seeing all your things in a lonely little pile on the grey concrete of the stop. Seeing people walk around it, completely ignoring it, because it isn't their business at all. And then you think, you know, well it wouldn't be your business either. Even though you'd feel mildly attached to it, you'd have left it behind. Pulled the trigger, started the car, moved on. 
You'd start freaking out because that was your life. That was your little brother looking up at the train window with lost eyes, unable to see you. That was your older sister crying on the curb, having barely the ability to stand. That was your mom and dad holding each other, tears brimming in their sad eyes. They're all wondering what they did wrong.
You'd see your little sister tug on their shirt, ask, "Where'd she go?"
What could they possibly say to that?
She'd worry, "When will she be back?"
This is your fault. Your mistake, and yet, you can't take it back now and say sorry, or even, "I love you."

So you hoist your baggage over your shoulder, and haul it everywhere you go because what if you lose it? What if you leave it somewhere and it just disappears? What if it's stolen from you, from right under your fingertips, and you don't have the time to say goodbye?
You carry it tightly in your arms, your knuckles turning white. Always on edge, shaky. You're getting exhausted, and half of it, you don't even want to hold onto. But your brother's attached to your sister's attached to your friend's attached to your memorie's attached to your school's attached to that party's attached to that night. Cling, cling, cling, everything's roped on to something else, and if you want any of it, you take all of it.

No, there's a problem with all of this. You need to let go of some things, and hold on to others. But first you need to untangle the mess, figuratively speaking. Let lose those parts of your life you don't need to carry in your heart. I mean, if you don't love it dearly, why let it hamper your strength?

The answer isn't running away, because it'll either catch up with you, or you'll lose everything. But letting go is a complicated process that takes years, and years, and years. Letting go takes holding on, and having something worthwhile to leave behind.
So while it's hard to carry, just sit yourself down when you have time, or you're far too tired to continue, and work it all out. The knots will come undone if only you keep picking at them. And once those bad parts are free, simply let them go.
It is you that's holding on, but that's a good thing, remember. Hold on for your dear life, because it is dear. And once you've packed your memories and belongings into a comforting note to leave on, board the train knowing that this time, you're ready. Knowing you've gained enough strength to carry it all out, enough knowledge to know what to hold, and enough love to keep it all together. Board the train knowing you've done what you needed to do, and you're stronger now. And whether or not better things await, you can go to sleep, and finally get some rest, without nightmares just over your shoulders.
Because death is certainly the end, but there was a beginning, and a wonderful in between. A very intelligent stranger once said, "Every song ends, but is that any reason not to enjoy the music?"

I always knew

24, 25, 26.

We're all sevens and eights, while we're all nines and tens.

But we're going on 19, we're boarding on death. To get to 78 we'll have to die to make it right.

Sat by a pond.