Suicide Grace

Woke up to cymbals crashing divine,
I couldn’t take this harshness of mine.
What strange brew percolates our mourning,
we can’t even see ourselves hurting.
These eyes are numerous and staring into me,
can they even remember when they were free?
Give in, give in and know a requiem for your pain,
before you meet your Maker and confess yourself vain.

Our Skins

We run desperately

From this bitter

Salted reality

Our skins can’t

Contain our anguish

This lamented sanity

What shameful mortality

It stands so brittle with me

Cut me with your needs

When I stop bleeding

Perhaps you will see

That I was more

Than just sinful skin

But I was never enough

My reality was too small

You needed a universe

To hold that gaze of yours

Mine was lost among the stars

Please stop and listen

The silence wraps us

Brush yourself with me

Our skins bruise too quick

We were meant for harm

And still we cannot part ways

There is never enough speed

To run away from ourselves

Only our tears precede us

Salting the road that lies ahead.


I can’t stand looking at you. Here you lie, unmoving. Untouched neither by the wind’s cool breath, nor the sun’s warm kiss. You’re no better than a flesh mannequin. Yet here I am still, tending to your every whim. An indentured slave…


I hear you softly, from afar.

Where are you?!

Don’t leave me alone!


Remember the day we went up to the hill that overlooks our town? The one covered in poppies? You had gone far ahead and I called out to you. When you turned around, you looked so handsome, so dashing with your white cape and cane, walking among the red poppies. It was such a wonderful and sunny dat. Do you remember? No. Not anymore. You’re just an empty husk. A reliquary of my memories and regrets.

I’m still here!

I’m still me!

Can’t you hear me?!

Three long years to the day since your accident with the horse. I always told you how wild that grey stallion was, how it would have been best to just set free. But you never listened. Not when it really mattered. It’s funny… I had given myself a month to muster up the courage to tell you that I knew about your affair after I had found out, that it was over between us, that I was leaving you. But then your accident happened three days before the month ended. Now, I wither by your side.


I did not meant for any of this to happen.

I suppose I deserve this, on some level. You were the handsome, rich, aristocrat gallivanting around town. Yes, dammit, your beauty caught my eye, your wit and charm tempted me. But it was how you lived the day-to-day what really enraptured me. So free, without care or worry from the judgement of others.


But that was just a lie. Your money, your lands, your servants: these gave you leeway with others, but not really freedom. You were selfish, spoiled. And I became like you. Little by little, I drove everyone I cared about away, defending you. Should have known better. Well, now I know.


I’m sorry.

I’m sorry.

Not that it will do us any good now. I dismissed the servants this morning and just took some pills that I bought a few days ago. I’m tired of watching over you, Clarence. If I’m going to be a living corpse, I might as w-well…become…well……ooooh.




I’m sorry!

I’m so sorry!

Oh God, let me out!

Let me out!

Don’t leave me!

I will get on my knees and beg forgiveness!

I love you!



What the Hand Knows

Salomon lightly touched his cheek with the tip of his fingers, slowly caressing it over and over, as if his hand was that of a lover’s.

“Who will ever want to touch my face and hold me in a gentle caress?”

His pillow never replied, yet he still made his queries to no one in particular. Slowly his fingers reached his brown hair, melding with his curls. With practiced grace, he lifted locks of his hair and began to comb it to the side.

“I love you.”, he whispered softly in the darkness. No one replied.