Thoughts.

I feel the beast chasing me, The heat of its breath on my Heels as it pants, I can Hear the slobber dripping from its Teeth, feel the hot spray of it on my legs as It gains on me Jaws snapping, not in rage but In anticipation For the violence it is about to do I feel its jaws close Massive and stinking, On my calf and I try To cry out but the Pain is too much and my throat Closes up. I feel each tooth enter My leg like a poisoned spear, Feel it tear me Down, jerk my body to a halt as Flesh and sinew tear and bones Crunch I am pulled to the ground but The beast does not relent, it Releases its hold on my leg only to Sink its jaws into my Side, tearing into my stomach and Releasing the fluid it contains I feel as though I will pass out from The pain as the acid Seeps through me, my own Body eating me away but The beast won't let me It stands over me, waiting for what it Needs to hear before it Will release me "I surrender" the words barely Make it out but as they do the beast Bows its head and Allows me to fall into the abyss Into the darkness And know nothing

I slip past my journals, Pretending not to notice their Glaring presence that whispers, softly "You should be writing." I tiptoe past my typewriter, sitting Gloomily in its case, Keys untouched for months, Like a crumbling temple that serves Only to remind me that I should be writing. I pretend not to see the prompt When I check my email and Feel guilt twisting my insides, Because I know I should be writing But what would I ever write about?

I walk at night, When the world is wild and Monsters pass each other on the street, And nod understandingly Because they have no need to fight, They share a common goal, after all. They move with faces hidden But if you look Real close You'll see the air is darker around them, The coils of inky blackness unfurling Into the night like Oil through water, Contaminating the drinkable world, Turning it to unswallowable poison.

Calgary Gothic

It smells too sweet, like pure sugar and I feel sickness in the pit of my stomach. The sweetness of it is Disgusting and I can't Think about anything else because It consumes me, this smell, Taking up all of my attention, Sugar and roses and vanilla, And the slight crispness of whatever it is burning. It fills up my head and Keeps me from focusing and There are No Spaces In My Thoughts

They ask me what it's like to live with mental illness. People, with their gaping jaws and unconquerable sounds, yelling, screaming at me through the white noise of my own existence. Their mouths moving too fast, teeth flashing like diamonds, too clean, faces contorted into monstrous shapes. They send me to doctors, they poke at my brain, they give me pills and tell me how I'm different. They're always wrong, and I know it, but I can't find the words to explain it to them. But it's too much. They're too much, with their questions and their prodding and their prescriptions. So I nod when they expect me too, and say I'm feeling better, and I try to resist the urge to break my fingers. I smile and say I'm doing well and return to my room to rock back and forth, curled up, tearing my face apart and plugging my ears, trying to block out thoughts and noises that no one else seems to hear. I press blades into my skin, I stare too long at sharp things and stand too close to the edges of tall buildings, wondering what it would be like to fall. I spend days immobile, trying not to think about death and failing. I go weeks without showering because I don't have the energy to stand that long. I fall into a state so close to death that he has a summer home next door, and I don't even care. They ask me what it's like to live with mental illness. I smile and say "It's not so bad."

I am an empty shell Sitting on a high up shelf, waiting To be taken down and Filled with someone else's self. I am a skeleton Just the beginning of a person with Nothing to define me yet, Not until they tell me Who I'm 'supposed' to be. I am a collector Sampling personalities and keeping The ones I like enough to Wear more than once. I am a thief I take your gestures and His manner of speech, Guarding them as my own until I find a use for them. I am no one Adapting to every situation as Someone else who's More equipped to deal with it, I have nothing of myself. I am hollow.

Skin (a poem)