Freakishly forbidden

When they told my I shouldn't love her
I wanted to scream
Loud enough to shatter the glass veranda doors

That they hadn't spent sleepless nights
Tangled in her bedsheets
Breathing in her dreams
As she lay fast asleep

Nor had they kissed her cracked lips
Knowing full well there was lip balm in her pockets
Smiling all the while
Just happy to be in her arms

And they could not imagine
The way the sunlight got lost in her eyes
Or how her hands got lost in mine
Or how she stroked my angry thoughts away
Just by running her fingers through my hair

And so they could not possibly understand
That it regardless of should or should not
I simply could not
Cannot
Will not
Stop loving her.

Wires

and there was his carcass.
limp.
lonely.
lifeless.
hanging in the twisted barbed wires.

sangre de cristo,
sangre de cristo.
I know what it means father,
but i'm not him.

cuts across his wrist.
forearms.
chest.
thighs.
abdomen.
back.
quadriceps.
everywhere.

his once brown hair now a shock of red.
blood was still creeping down his body towards his face.
upside down.
his eyes were open.
his shoes were on.
his clothes were torn.
his book was on the floor.
his book was in the blood.

forgive me father for I have sinned.
I have sinned and sinned and sinned.
forgive me.
don't let the devil take me.

the small triangular bristles along the wire were scarlet.
the concrete bathed in a pool of crimson.
the walls splattered with cerise.
his head a shade of carmine.

bad blood.
bad bad sinful blood.
deserved to be spilled.
he was the sin.
he took the blame.
he was the blame.
the book was a prop.
the clothes material banter.

If I pray, nothing bad can happen.
I'll be preserved.
I'll be sustained.
oh fuck just help me.

God's soldiers sent for him.
pushed him into the dragon's den.
knowing he'd be devoured.
even with the protection of His book.

so there he hung.
limp.
lonely.
lifeless.

stuck.
lost in translation.
stuck in purgatory.
or was it hell.
or was it heaven.
did it matter.
he was dead.
the blood of a christ was spilled.

I'm not ready yet.

--mark

Dear society

hi. I'm lynn.

and i do not appreciate today's society.

i don't appreciate the fact that Asher Brown was found by his own mother.

i do not appreciate that in the fourth grade was when it started for Seth Walsh. He also had to be found by his mother. 

i don't appreciate a lot of things today.

[in the words of Joel burns,

you will get out of the household

you will get away from those who don't agree.]

i like to read six billion secrets

and pretend, hey.

i could know someone who posted one of these

i could help them with this. i should help them with this

i will help them with this

and i don't

because i cannot.

i like to pretend,

that hey.

my sister is incorrect.

there is no danger in the surgery

and that for the love of god

will you have some faith in modern-day medical technology?

he will survive

there will be no complications

our family will not lose a member.

he is going to be perfectly fine.

and i pretend that some nights i don't cry myself to sleep because in the back of my head i believe my sister. 

everyone gets sad sometimes

some people act on it

some people don't

if you ever think you're going to act on it

please

think of your mother.

if there are two things i want to keep from my childhood until when im old

are these two items.

one if a bear, with a little noise-maker inside i've had since i was a baby.

it's tattered and old, but it's mine.

and another is this quilt my mother made me.

you know that feeling when your heart pulls itself out of your chest

and the back of your throat burns?

love can be painful sometimes.

remember the power rangers?

the blue one was gay.

people think i write for some crazy reason.

i want to get noticed. i want to get famous. i want to make money.

want want want want want.

this isn't a strip club.

i don't want anything.

i write because i like to think of things that are better or worse

--lynn

Toil

he sat on the ground.

his back against the tiled wall.

staring.

staring transfixed at the bottle.

the transparent orange tube of pills.

the snails track of former tears covered his face.

his hands were shaking.

his eyes were bloodshot.

he wrapped his arms around his legs and tried,

tried, to calm himself.

he tried to turn away.

but he couldn't.

he knew he would eventually cave in.

so what better time than now.

his breathing rate was increasing at an inhuman pace.

he raised his hands and grabbed at his hair.

he pulled his head into his knees and let out a fresh waterfall of tears.

it was so hard.

to resist the temptation.

to give up.

he screamed. and screamed.

and screamed.

he banged his head against the wall.

perhaps the pain could distract him.

but the thought was still there. the lust was still there.

-----

the longing was still there.

and he couldn't take it.

one pill.

could end his suffering.

his pain.

his heartbreak.

one dramatic twist.

to end it all.

and begin it all again.

the painful paradox.

he couldn't give it up.

but he couldn't keep it forever.

it would have to end.

but for now,

let the addiction rule.

--mark

smile

honestly, love, i think you need to smile more.

you do not know who you are. but i do. and i think you need to smile. like, a lot more.

so, chin up, mister. smile more.

pull up your pants, get a normal shirt, straighten your hair, and tie your shoe laces.

because, honestly, do you know who we are?

we are sophmores in high school, in suburban chicago, illinois, in the united states of america.

i think we deserve a few simple things, par from the high-and-excitement of high school.

so, stop being so silly, so conceited, so sad.

and love, smile. just a teeny tiny one. just a super teeny tiny upturn of the lips in the direction of the sun.

turn your lips so they're facing the blue yonder above us.

stop being such a debbie downer. you are not debbie. or a downer.

so smile, before someone else starts to frown as well.

that someone just might be me

and it has already started.

--lynn

Breathe

and there you are.

on my doorstep.

I can see your face peek through the window.

look around in confusion, as if expecting me.

I stand up and walk towards the door.

you see me now. 

you smile warmly.

my hand almost touches the handle.

but I pull back in fright, as if the handle were conducting electricity.

you're confused. so am I.

you raise your eyebrows.

you mouth the same words over and over.

let me in.

and each time my hand goes near,

I remember.

I remember why I can't turn the handle.

a tear rolls down my cheek.

you just look at me in confusion.

in sympathy.

I turn around.

I walk away.

I look at the kitchen utensils.

at the knives.

then I look at you,

and remember why.

why I can't pull a knife down.

why I can't put an end to this torture.

I sit and sob.

I can't look you in the eye anymore.

I can't breathe anymore.

--mark