Johnny’s Mantra

Slit wrists paint horrid pictures.

Noosed necks sing nasty songs.

Fallen angels create a lovely mess.

Laughter echoes when he’s gone.

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Slow Suicide

Occasionally, while chain-smoking in my garage, I take a deep hit of one of my clove cigarillos and think, “That’s the one. That’s the hit that gave me cancer.”

I envision the cell’s birth and growth, somewhere on my pancreas. A pain manifests right below my rib cage.

I take to the internet, like all cyberchondriacs do, and learn everything about Pancreatic Cancer: signs, symptoms, survival rates, surgery methods.

I learn everything about the disease I just manifested, and after a while, with enough searches, I begin to accept it.

“I guess this is it,” I whisper to myself.

“How will I tell my mom..and my sisters…and my dad…and my friends and the seven other family members I like?”

I decide that I’m not going to tell anyone.

And I’m not going to go to the doctor.

I’m just going to die–a slow suicide.

It will likely be painful, but any other of my previous planned suicides would be much more painful…but for my loved ones, not me.

Jumping off a bridge or tall building or into a train, or overdosing on pills and booze would be relatively painless, for me, but it would ruin the lives of the seventeen people I love…and unfortunately love me for reasons unknown.

Pancreatic Cancer will have to do.

Don’t smoke kiddies.

The Abyss

We all have an abyss to stare into on lonely nights and mornings and days.

Some of us, after staring long enough, turn our backs to it and say, “Not Today”.

I…I tend to trip into it.

Other times I sit on the edge of it and wonder what’s truly down there, despite spending most of my life in it.

Occasionally, I crawl down into it, seeing how far I can get before losing my grip.

But on my worst days, when leaden with hate and shame and scorn, I cannonball into it.

Hitting rock bottom.

Filled with broken mirrors I tossed in over the years.

I pick up the shards, with reflections of me, and cut myself each day that I’m there.

If I’m feeling creative, I try to carve in clever quips like HOPE IS A CURSE WORD DOWN HERE, but never get past the H.

A few weeks will pass before anyone notices.

And by the time they do,

I’ve already crawled out,

With a few new tattoos.

She (Slightly Sexual Content)

She hates it when I lock myself in the garage to write and chain-smoke.

She scans my body for fresh burns every night before bed, but I learned to burn the eyes of the skull tattoo on my leg to hide them–so much so that the nerves are dead and each burn is more of an aesthetic contribution than a channeling of psychic pain.

She isn’t allowed to read anything I write so she thinks I’m writing about her.

She screams at me nightly for all the things I never wrote about her.

She questions my love, I answer in pain.

She works my flaccid cock with mouth and hand, getting it hard enough to penetrate her for a few minutes, before going numb. She repeats the process four or five times–until she cums–then, as she dismounts, spots the fresh scars I tried so hard to hide and begins to cry.

She kisses each scar…then leaves a new one. “It’s over,” she said.




This piece was written for my Sanctuary, Sex and Suicidal Silhouettes¬†piece, but I’m having trouble finishing the¬†Suicidal Silhouettes¬†portion.

Please critique this post and my previous and all future posts–I prefer negative feedback.