SOME KILL WITH THE FLESH OF THEIR KNIVES AND THE BONES OF THEIR SWORDS BUT BULLETS OF WORDS AND SILENCERS OF SENTENCES WILL ALWAYS RUPTURE THE MENDS OF A MIND.

i just want to let you know that you killed me.

so before anyone puts roses on my casket, or grieve in solemn gospel or bleed me murals of misery. i want you to know why i wear this noose as my tie. why this noose hugs me better than any mother could. where death put a diamond ring on my finger and i said my vows. i hate you. i love you. and this is goodbye.

i wrapped this noose around my throat and smiled, wondering if this tragedy is what you wanted, and this ain't my first time. i've danced with suicide like a long-lost lover on the dancefloor, each step we take, we bounce to the synths of my suffering, the beat of pain my drumming against my ears, my melodious misery a tasteful tune for the party of evil thoughts, they stand on stage, and i hear their chorus chant—

kill yourself they sing. what else could your life bring? don't you remember how you lost your angel wings? you're lost to the torment playing in your mind, we know the prophecy of hope always kept you blind; tell me. how many times has she left you behind? you count your fingers and wondered countless moments if she'd ever be kind, only to find you're heart ripped out your throat, dead and confined. it's pathetic. kill yourself they sing. time is running out and your life is on a string.

i took some pills when i was sixteen to wipe my mind white clean, black bathroom turned to white floors. is this heaven? i see no white doors. but it's comforting, something about the silence is comforting like heartbeat humming against your ear. i think everyone should hear it before they disappear. but the only white you saw was the foam corroding in my mouth and those fucking angel-cloned paramedics.

where did they come from? how did my sister know? i was sure i turned the lock and that i was alone. an accidental overdose. sis said if she was minutes late i would've died, hugging my head, and kissing my damp face thinkin' it was tears of joys but little did she know how badly i wanted that white room. that white silence. those white pills. i want my painkillers back sis. i know you changed the lock to the medicine cabinet. i want my painkillers back, or how else am i supposed to sleep?

you were mad when mama didn't get me treatment. 'too much money.' she said. 'too much bills.' she added. you know she's right. she always right. dad fucked with our money remember? all those years ago. now all she has left is the insurance plan, the divorce check, your hefty college funds, and the bank account she made for herself. we couldn't pay for that and you know it. and so you went to playing doctor. playing psychiatrist. asking—faking—asking if little sis was okay. i see right through you. i know i'm only a burden to you. don't lie. it's okay.

i'm fine.

at the eve of eighteen i tried changing myself for the better. i did my hair, wore those girly clothes, and did my makeup. i went out like you said to have some fun and get some friends. i did better. i found a boy. but it seems like you only catch his eye. sweet beautiful delores, so pretty and thin. i could hear you laughing when he said he didn't like fat girls. i know i heard you. i was going to prove you wrong so i changed for the better. dropped so much weight you could touch each vessel attached to my very bones. i couldn't tell if i was touching my skin or the piece of a former vein. and like that i came back tumbling back onto the dancefloor and the song only got louder after he rejected me. the chorus began and i wondered if i'd ever get to hear a different verse.

kill yourself they sing the blues. this world has been nothing but cruel to you. ever since you hit twelve, they lost all your trust. none of the boys looked at you the way you wanted them too except stepfather henry with lust. but those nights in his room didn't count, not the kisses, the touches, not even the thrusts. i wonder if your listening. i'm only trying to save you from your pain. how you let yourself suffer—it drives me insane. i did anything and everything just to turn off your brain. your just kept in this life that's been giving you chains. and i'm only saying this because i care about you meera. not like them. i really do. so kill yourself, end yourself they sing the blues.

i was always afraid of knives and their blades. the teeth of metal never failed to make me shudder but i got through it. i always did. i started off with my thighs, i couldn't risk anyone seeing them on my arms. the first drop of blood was a sliver of pain but the ticket to euphoria. i felt free. my body was my body. i was my own canvas. my own artwork. my own artform. this pain, this pleasure, this flesh was mine. they called this self-harm but i called this self-use. the power to be me before it was all over. i'd only cut one wrist to watch the warm bath water bloom rosy red. on the edge of life and death i wondered if hell was a concept and if heaven was a dream.

there was a time i feared god. i feared him, i feared his power, i feared his judgement i quivered before his name, i prayed, and prayed for these evil thoughts to go away. only to realize that i'm just fearing another man in my life. what was he going to take from me? my innocence? my self-worth? my hope? my fucking dreams? if so henry's already beaten him by the punch. i laughed. why fear a man who does nothing at all? so i say god: you are a fool. every ounce of worship and prayer i wasted on you i take it back. and if you are real, then send me right to hell, i don't want your forgiveness. at least the devil will understand. we all know sinners always had more fun than the saints.

then there was the gun. i was twenty-one if i recall. it was a nine milimeter beauty—with an outer shell of blackened death, a snakes recoil, and the mighty cry of a king. but could i take a bullet to my brain? could i pull the trigger and be done? feel the bullet eat my skull, and burrow into my head? is this suicidal soul burning bluer than a flicker of a flame? but i couldn't. i was weak. for some reason i still wanted to stay alive. and i hate myself for it. i am weak. i am a coward.

i used to sing once. i reckon i was seven. doll-eyed and angel faced. i'd weave songs from the roots of my imagination and sing my heart out as i twirled to the sound of my dad's guitar. he called me his little rockstar— he said that one day i was going to be on stage. dad, i'm sorry i never kept that promise. i know this isn't the concert you envisioned. it's been hard without you. my lyrics means nothing anymore—they only come back to haunt me with it's disjointed letters. my voice is gone, i think i lost somewhere screaming inside those sheets and pillows. but i'm proud of the fantasy, the first seed of hope you've given me.

the only thing i'm going to regret leaving this earth is leaving you.

i know you don't play the guitar when your sad. but hopefully you won't be sad for long. after all you have another daughter out there and although she can't sing, she can surely make you proud. delores always does.

i know i said i was fine. i am fine. i am fine. i am fine. i sounded like a broken record i know i did. i just thought maybe if i heard myself say it over and over i'd believe it too, like you did. i want to feel fine but fine can only take you so far.

if your reading this now it's probably at my funeral, and i want you to know it's not your fault. maybe it's no ones fault but mine. maybe it wasn't mother? maybe it wasn't sis? maybe it wasn't derek or henry? maybe it's just me.

but either way i'm sorry for this broken head of mine.

this last song goes out to you. i sung my last one just for you. it's called 'listen to my coffin'. and maybe when i die, all of you will cry or maybe you won't. but you said all you ever wanted for me in life was to be happy and it seems death is only way i can cope.

i hate you.

i love you.

and this is goodbye.

[END OF CHORUS]

—switch into interlude—

"the voices are gone and i've finally met peace. thank you"

~art~

"it only took your swaying corpse, your final words, and your broken hope to realize what they have lost. your father said he loved your song but he doesn't think he can play the guitar anymore."