The first time she said it, he was on the floor, looking for something.

"I love you."

It was quiet, as if a passing thought. But he froze, like it was the most important thing in the world.

"Say it again," he said, turning to look at her.

"I love you." She whispered.

And there was something about the way she sat there, quivering like a leaf, that made him want to sit down and hold her forever.

"I love you I love you I love you."

She was getting much too brave, and the words rolled off her tongue like they’d been waiting for a long time to be heard.

"Screw everything." She said. "Screw building walls and hiding emotions.

"I am fucking terrified, and perhaps I don’t know much. But I love you," she laughed. "I know that I love you."

—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #55 

Just like all the drug addicts and murderers, I can honestly say that I never set out to be what I am today. In third grade, I wanted to be an astronaut but all the boys told me that’s not for girls like me. At twelve, I wanted to be a writer but my teachers laughed at me, saying that ain’t a real job for people in this town. Their laughter echoed throughout the halls, still echoes inside fissures of my brain some times.

The first time I heard about death was in the form of the grandmother of this boy I hated. I saw her just a couple of days ago in town, walking with her cane and hunched back. For a time, I had a skewed understanding that death only comes with old age and that everyone was safe for now. So it was a huge deal to me when I met cancer. He was nine like me but his hair was falling out in clumps like cotton candy made of honey and he’s got nightskies underneath his eyes that made it look like he carried all the weight of the world. I’ve never heard someone breathe so shallowly, never seen someone so drained out of life.

The first time I heard of suicide was from a news reporter, five minutes before I set out for school.The entire day, I just sat there, not hearing what square roots were for, not even looking out the window like I always did at Math class, counting how many flowers were as blue as I was, just sat so still, the world became the inside of a broken lightbulb.

There were stories. Lots of them, as I was growing up. A boy once told me about a friend of his attempting to kill himself at midnight when his parents weren’t home. Tied a rope around his chandelier and when he jumped, the ceiling caved in. We laughed. Sure,it was funny then. But there were other stories. I went to a bookstore once and just out of a whim, chose a book from the highest shelf and bought it without knowing what it was all about. I got home and plopped it on the couch. I read it two years later during a rainy day when my parents weren’t home. On page two forty one, paragraph two, eighth line, the author wrote about a rainy day when the entire student body discovered a fifteen-year old’s body hanging from a rope inside the gym. I imagine what would happen if the same thing happened in my school. I imagine who I’d become: one of those running away, or if I’d be one of the few with feet planted firmly on the ground, unable to take my eyes off the soft swaying of something so utterly dead.

Let’s face it, there are so many opportunities to die every single day. One step in front of a speeding van to make it look like an accident. One bottle of aspirin to make this headache go away for good. One fifteen-foot drop off the abandoned bridge in the woods, just east of town. One clean cut to the wrist.

Yet we don’t take them. I figured if I were going to go through this, I’d much rather choose something different. A gunshot to the head accounts for over fifty percent of suicides. Suffocation’s almost up to twenty five percent annually now. I knew a guy who guzzled up a gallon of bleach, died more likely of choking than poisoning they say. So I write, and I live. And this is how I kill myself.


I’ve been feeling tired lately.
Tired enough to look at alternatives to living.
I weigh the options in my head in-between yawns.
Work or a bottle of pain relievers?
Leaving my bed or jumping off a bridge?
The thing of rope in the garage or what,
an education? A landlord to pay rent to?
Another day to fill?

What’s the point?

I say the words aloud, hoping they’ll make more sense.
Three syllables. Three clicks of the tongue.
What’s. The. Point?

I sigh.
Pull my clothes on.
Twist my fingers tightly into a ball.
I don’t know.

Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe this question will continue to circle
over and over and over and over again in my head, acting as the only marker that I am the same person in the same body, housing the same thoughts.

Six years old, I stared tearfully,
with head pressed to window,
at the blur of dead hills.
What’s the point? I asked.
Eight, I ran with face down,
sweating through warm streams
in the California heat,
catching frogs in-between my fingers.
What’s the point? my feet splashed.
Thirteen, wiping away tears in a public bathroom stall,
trying to press myself deep into the bus seat
to keep from being seen.
What’s the point? I cursed.
Fifteen, thinking I understood love songs
as my lips learned about kissing
behind the community center.
What’s the point? I giggled.
Sixteen, scratching his name out of my desk
the rest of the semester.
What’s the point? I spat.
Eighteen, all moved in,
listening to my friends
sloppily clink their glasses together
as I lay in the dark,
feeling lonelier than ever before.
What’s the point? I shook.
Twenty-one, no longer amused,
feeling too old to not
have these things figured out
and too young to be gentle on myself.

What’s the point?
I don’t know.

But a part of me
(that has perhaps existed longer than my questioning)

No one knows.
We are all here to find out.

—  Making My Own Point | Lora Mathis

The door is always open. I don’t mean that for everybody. In all honesty, I’m this hateful, dreadful sort of person. I hate everyone I don’t intend on fucking & then I eventually hate them too.

I’m difficult. I know I’m difficult. I know that loving me made you cry. I know that I did some terrible things, but how I am with you, how I felt for you, how I still feel for you, for us, is a way I’ve never been able to be with anyone, for anyone. I’ve never been able to understand anything past my own body & yet I understand you.

You think I would yell if you came back. You’re wrong. You think it’s better off this way. You’re wrong. You think she’s going to be enough & that one day her beauty will burn your eyelids open. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. Everything you think you know is wrong.

You see, I keep coming back for you. I keep turning over the rug, flipping the mattress. So what if we both drew blood? We can just change the goddamn sheets. It never has to be so complicated.

If we lose one thing, we’re never guaranteed to find another. There is no carbon copy. There’s no expiration date either. It’s never too late. The gun you shot & the gun I shot & the blood & the sheets & the weakness. All it proves is that I still love you. All it proves is that you can’t kill this.

So stop trying. Stop thinking about what it will take. Stop thinking about who still needs to forgive who & what for. There’s not a goddamn thing to forgive. It’s okay by me. The wall we crashed into, is okay by me. Messes can always be cleaned & bones can always be reset. So, please, stop thinking about what I’ll say or what you’ll say, because this is what I will say

—I miss you more than I could ever hate you & I know how to love you better than I know how to be angry with you, so when you want to come home, just come home. The door is always open. You don’t even have to knock.—

—  Moriah Pearson, I’ll be inside (free-writing)
Two Reasons Why You Don't Know How You Feel

One. It’s the age-old war between heart and mind. Some people tell you to always be reasonable, go with what’s logical. Do your research. Gather the facts. There’s a reason why the brain is placed higher than the heart after all. But when it’s three am and you can’t sleep, you’re lying in bed, even the crickets are asleep, you realise it doesn’t really matter, does it? Your stomach turns, your hands begin to sweat, your vision’s blurring every time he comes around. Everything that used to not happen with him is happening now. It’s like the beginning of a rollercoaster ride, with the slow descent and the momentary stillness at the peak. People are like ants below. The trees are toothpicks. The clouds are still far away. You feel numb when everyone else is screaming. It’s like when a storm is brewing. All is silent but you know it’s coming. The weatherman said so.

Two. You actually don’t feel anything.


There are so many artists who refuse to recognize themselves as such either because they haven’t reached a predetermined level of success, be it monetary or through public recognition, or simply because they think their work is shit. This is nothing short of tragic. Being an artist has nothing to do with success. How many commercially successful “artists” are out there who have no idea what it means to be one? You are an artist simply because you have no choice. You have a thirst within you that will never die. You have a need to create, and you must create to survive. Show me an artist who doesn’t have some way to express himself and I’ll show you pure misery. To any of you out there who can feel my words, who have felt the need I speak of, and have known the pain I speak of, you are, regardless of your status, an artist.