Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LJF456qmnBI

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;

For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow

Die not, poor Death, 

Nor yet canst thou kill me.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well

And better than thy stroke; 

Why swell'st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more; 

Death, 

Thou shalt die.

Stay.

That's what mothers say when their sons and daughters go away

They say stay.

My mother said go.

So I wasn't there the night she fell out of her wheelchair, 

So frustrated that she amputated her own legs, 

Or rather tried to with a steak knife.

Her life leaking out on the white floor blossoming like roses in the snow.

Our relationship was an anthem composed of words like 

"Gotta go".

So we went.

And sent our regards on postcards from other places we'd been with stories about all the things we'd seen,

That's how it was with you and I; 

Why say good bye when we could still write?

But then it took your hands.

We should've practiced our goodbyes, because then it took your eyes. 

And I was somewhere, in the middle of nowhere, 

Watching the sun rise over a stop sign placed down the centre line of a highway 

Filled with sudden turns for the worse.

Running back home 'cause I gotta play nurse.

Gotta figure out which pill alleviates which pain, 

Which part of your brain is being used for a boxing bag 

As your body became a never ending game of freeze tag 

Taking place in an empty playground.

I was left looking for your limbs in a lost and found, 

And I couldn't set you free.

So we just sat there.

Our heads bent towards each other

Like flowers in the small hours of the morning, 

While light wandered in like a warning that time is passing 

And you right along with it,

Bit by bit every day.

And all I could say is, if I could, 

I would write you some way out of this,

But my gift is useless. 

And you said no.

Write me a poem to make me happy.

So I write.

Move pen move,

Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers, 

But my mother just motions to a bottle full of answers and says, 

"Help me go".

And now I know something of how a piano must feel 

When it looks at the fireplace to see sheet music being used for kindling,

Smoke signalling the end of some song 

That I thought it would take too long to learn. 

Now I just sit here watching you burn away, 

All those notes I never had a chance to play, 

To hear the music of what you had to say.

I count out the pills just to see if I can do it.

I can't even get halfway through it before I turn back into your son and say

Stay.

I could hook up my heart to your ears, 

And let my tears be your morphine drip 

Because maybe it's easier to let you slip away than it is to say 

Goodbye.

So I hold my breath.

Because in the count down to death 

The question of "why" melts into "when".

How much time do we have left, 

Because if I knew what I know now then-

Move pen move,

Write me a mountain.

Because headstones are not big enough.

My mother says stop it,

Write me a poem to make me happy.

So I write this:

Stay.

She smiles and says, 

"Gotta go".

I know.

Goodbye.

-------------------

This poem became really meaningful to me when my own grandma was dying a few years ago. She had had a stroke in May and it took until April the next year for her to pass away. She was ninety-five years old and the only grandparent I ever got the chance to know. She was also the first major death in my family. In her final months, we knew she was dying and it was only a matter of time so every day I went to school thinking I'd get pulled out of class and given the news that she'd died. Between her and my own mental health issues, I was a wreck. It was an incredibly difficult time for my entire family.

I listened to this poem again on a whim and one part really hit me. To this day, the bit that gets me every time is this: 

"So I hold my breath

Because in the count down to death

The question of "why" melts into "when".

How much time do we have left,

Because if I knew what I know now then-

Move pen move,

Write me a mountain.

Because headstones are not big enough."

It really captured the distress I felt at not being able to know my grandmother as well as I wanted to and having to watch her slip away and also realizing her strength and everything she had done in her life.

Shane Koyczan really does have some beautiful poetry. To This Day, Troll, A Good Day, My Darling Sara, The Crickets Have Athritis, How to Be a Person, Instructions for a Bad Day, they're all incredibly meaningful and I love them to bits, but Move Pen Move will always hold that special place in my heart because it just reminds me so much of my grandma.

RIP Frances Allain (February 25, 1920-April 6, 2015)

I love you and miss you, Grandma. I hope there's plenty of curling and crosswords up in heaven for you <3

I’m sorry that I have a weird sense of humor.

I’m sorry that I leave my clothes on the floor.

I’m sorry I forgot to wish you happy birthday.

I’m sorry I take too long in the shower.

I’m sorry that I sleep too much.

I’m sorry that I stay up too late.

I’m sorry my music's too loud.

I’m sorry for when I forget my chores.

I’m sorry for when I’m too loud.

I’m sorry for when I’m too quiet.

I’m sorry that I put things off.

I’m sorry I’m not a better role model.

I’m sorry I’m such a picky eater.

I’m sorry that I laugh so loud.

I’m sorry that I’m bad at making eye contact.

I’m sorry that I say the wrong thing too often.

I’m sorry I’m not good enough.

I’m sorry I’ll never measure up.

I’m sorry for being anxious all the time.

I’m sorry that we don’t talk anymore.

I’m sorry that I lied.

I’m sorry that you have to deal with me.

I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable when I cried.

I’m sorry for being this way (I never asked to be).

I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.

I’m sorry I relapsed again.

I’m sorry for being so messed up.

I’m sorry I’m not strong like you.

I’m sorry for pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t.

I’m sorry that all of this is my own stupid fault.

I’m sorry for not being a better Christian, student, child, friend.

I’m sorry I’m not the person either of us want me to be.

Most of all,

I guess I’m just 

Sorry.

1. Pain

It hurts. The blade crosses your skin, the match presses into your flesh, your fist impacts your stomach, and it hurts. You will touch your battle wounds and wince. It will keep you awake at night.

2. Blood

No matter where it comes from, it will still stain. It will sneak its way under your fingernails and smear on your fingertips. It will drip into the sink and splatter. Cold water and soap will not be enough.

3. Scars

Mental or physical, they will always be there. You will have marred yourself in ways you will never be able to undo. In real life, there is no Control-Z command to go back. If you aren’t careful, those lines become prison bars and they will lock you in.

4. Shame

You will let no one close to you for fear of them seeing. You will duck your head and avoid their eyes. You will look at the twisted fruits of your labours and the regret will destroy you just like it did yesterday and the day before that.

5. Fashion

You will wear long sleeves or long pants in order to cover yourself. Even on the hottest days, you must either hide in your room or sweat in silence. Otherwise, you will spend your day in fear and anxiety as every glance in your direction sends your heart pounding.

6. Glances

The people who find out will look at you with pity or suspicion. Your excuses sound hollow and forced. Their eyes will burn into you more than a matchstick ever could. Before they look into your eyes, they will look for your wounds.

7. Stigma

They will think it is for attention. They will think that you are trying to die. You will think that too, sometimes. You will doubt the depth of your pain and how valid your feelings really are.

8. Lying

You will learn how to lie. If you are a bad liar, you must practice. Every word will taste like acid but you must not let them see your hands shake. You will practice the words ‘I’m fine,’ in the mirror until you can say them without dying a little inside.

9. Change

It will change everything about you. You shall lose the ability to look at another person and not look for scars. You will see innocent objects and they will make your heart race because they resemble your tools and the associations cannot be removed.

10. Explanations

You will have to explain to others. Children will notice and they will ask you what happened. You must smile and tell them a lovely lie to put them at ease. Perhaps that you battled a dragon or were abducted by aliens. Tell them anything but the truth.

11. Guilt

You will feel like you are nothing. Like you are letting down everyone you know. The sorrow in their eyes has the power to break you in ways you could never imagine. They do not understand how difficult it is to be like this.

12. You are worth it

No matter how worthless you feel, you are a treasure. Whatever is going on right now is temporary and you have the strength to survive. This is not the way out. You are worthy of love, whether you see it or not. This will try to cloud your vision but you must rise above.

13. You are not alone

It may feel like it. You may feel like no one could possibly understand what you’re going through. You may feel like the entire world has utterly abandoned you. This is a lie. There is always someone who loves you. If you can’t find them, then look again. They’re there. I promise.

I count the days.

They drag on into weeks,

Then months,

Then years.

(I hope.)

I count the days.

Every Monday marks a new week,

Another seven days of control,

Another 168 hours toward freedom.

I count the days on glass fingers.

They are fragile,

Easily broken.

It would take just one moment to shatter them,

One instant of weakness,

One second of lost control.

I count the days,

Fearful of their end,

Terrified of when I inevitably give in to temptation.

I can feel them wearing at me.

My resolve wavers and trembles,

Bending beneath their weight.

I count the days,

Longing for the day when I no longer need to,

Wondering if that is even possible.

Until then,

I count the days.

**Trigger Warning**

[Based off of the song Bullet by Hollywood Undead]

The last thing you remembered was sitting on the roof of your flat with your two best friends- a bottle of pills and a bottle of gin. You could hear sirens in the distance and had assumed that your mother had found your note and called the police. Then you’d noticed the smoke in the distance. You stood up and immediately sat back down again when a wave of dizziness overwhelmed you. You stared up at the night sky, struggling to breathe. You reached up one heavy hand, trying to trace the outline of a constellation, wondering vaguely where the sun was. Why was it always night? What did life mean if you couldn’t dream? If you could just sleep...

You weren’t sure when you blacked out.

You did know when you woke up. You hadn’t expected to. Your head was pounding as you pushed yourself up to your elbows, forcing open your impossibly heavy eyelids to see him watching you. He had bags under his eyes and looked exhausted but his expression brightened when he saw you were awake.

“Hello,” he mumbled, his relief clear as he moved to your bedside, “How are you feeling?”

You let your head fall back to the pillow and clenched your jaw to keep the tears from coming. You had survived again. You had been so persistent. The numerous scars on your wrist were proof enough of your previous attempts. You had thought that this time it would work. You had even made sure to buy a proper suit for the funeral. You wanted to look nice when you went to meet God. You pressed the heels of your hands into your eyes, “How’d you know?”

His forced smile faltered and he ducked his head, “You weren't yourself earlier. I was worried. I went to check on you and...” the words seemed to get stuck in his throat. You could hear the tension in his voice, the barely disguised hurt and guilt. It made the aching in your chest worsen horribly and you couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. He pulled you into his arms and you could feel him shaking as he rocked you back and forth like you were the most fragile thing in the world. The weight of your own shame was crushing and you found that you could hardly breathe beneath it.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” you whimpered over and over again, clinging to him like a child. “I just want it to stop. Please just make it stop.”

He peppered kisses to your face and hair, tears streaking down his freckled cheeks. The dread he had felt when he found you, the terror that he might lose you, the guilt that he hadn’t noticed sooner, the relief that you were still here were too much to bear. “Please never do that again,” he pleaded, “Please don’t leave me. Nothing is worth losing you so please, please stay with me. Please.”

- Nausea

- Increased or irregular heart rate

- Sweaty palms

- Tremors

- Lightheadedness

- Anxiety

- Difficulty speaking

- Insomnia

- Chest pain

- Difficulty concentrating

- Loss of coordination

- Euphoria

- Impulsiveness

- Dry mouth or difficulty swallowing

- Frequent blushing

- Obsessive or irrational behavior

(And yet love is somehow worth every bit)

Arthur stumbled down the dark, wet streets. His cane clicked and splashed as he limped through the mix of pavement and puddles. His breath came in short, panting bursts, clouding lazily as if to contrast the coil of anxiety twisting his stomach.

How did I get here? he wondered frantically, shaking his head like a dog in an effort to dislodge the wild, discordant thoughts and images that tumbled through his mind, flashing like a stop-motion film gone awry. What happened?

He didn’t know how he had gotten here, out in the streets in the rain. The night’s events were a blurred mess of drunkenness, muddled and distant like he had just woken up from a dream he couldn’t quite recall.

The rain trailed down Arthur’s skin, dripping from his messy brown hair to roll down his neck and soak into the fabric of his dirty and stained shirt. He didn’t know where his ratty old coat had gotten to and he was cold, wet, and miserable.

They’ll use this against me, he thought, biting his tongue. His grip on his cane tightened until his knuckles shone white. I didn’t do anything!

The police had been harassing him for weeks now, digging up every dirty little secret they could about Arthur Sherlock Alpine. They knew far too much, things that no man should know about him. They knew about his abuse as a child despite how hard Aunt Sam had worked to keep it quiet after she rescued him from the violent drunks who had the audacity to call themselves his parents. They knew how he had struggled so much with making friends that he needed to be homeschooled because he got in so many fights with the other kids. They knew about his drinking problems and they knew how he had gotten his limp driving under the influence and that two people had been killed because of his negligence. They didn’t know that he considered it three people because the victim had been pregnant when she died. When he killed her. They knew about the five years Arthur had spent in prison for that accident and they had quickly familiarized themselves with his laundry list of mental health issues. Of course they would take advantage of such things.

Arthur had watched enough television to understand that he was a perfect suspect for the recent killings. A former convict with a history of abuse, violence, alcoholism and mental illness, in the area, even seen near the crime scenes. There was just one issue with their case: Arthur was certain of his innocence. The man was a nasty drunk but he refused to believe he would ever intentionally kill another human being.

Reaching his apartment, Arthur reached into his pocket, searching for his key with trembling hands. Pinching the grooved metal, he tried and failed to insert it into the lock, letting loose a high-pitched curse of frustration as it slipped through his numb fingers and clattered to the warped floorboards. Resting one hand on the knob for balance, Arthur leaned down to collect the blood-smeared key only to have the door swing inwards at his touch, almost spilling him headfirst into his apartment.

Pocketing the key, Arthur took a cautious step inside, rain slipping from his clothes and pooling around his shoes. Catching sight of his reflection in the small mirror on the wall that he had never gotten around to moving, he paused to survey his appearance. His hair hung over his vacant blue eyes, his gaunt face slick with rain. His shirt clung to his bony frame, stained orange and red with the same blood that covered his hands like a thick paint. There were scratches over his cheekbone, still lazily oozing crimson which mingled with the wetness and turned a watery rust-colour as it slid down his neck and collarbone. With a sort of morbid curiosity, Arthur reached up with one hand to feel the wounds, flinching as a stinging pain blossomed over his face. Gazing shakily at his blood-stained fingers, his breath came in short, ragged gasps as his chest tightened, his stomach roiling sickeningly.

I didn’t do anything, he repeated to himself, less certainly this time.

“Mr. Alpine?” a voice spoke up and Arthur turned slowly to see two policemen watching him. They were unfamiliar to him, one old and the other young. It was the elder who had spoken and he continued to do so but his voice sounded far away, muffled and garbled.

His mind felt slow and heavy as he began limping towards his postage-stamp kitchen, ignoring the two men, intent on the thought that had just occurred to him dully. Have to wash my hands.

He could vaguely hear the policeman raise his voice, his tone becoming agitated but he kept limping towards his goal. Just as Arthur reached the sink, a hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling at him roughly. His reaction was instant, lacking any thought as his hand darted out, no longer shaking, and wrapped itself around the handle of a large kitchen knife. Before Arthur even realized what he was doing, the blade was forcing itself deeper and deeper into the younger man’s torso. Eyes completely devoid of any thought or emotion, Arthur watched as if from outside his own body as his hand continued to push the weapon into the slot between the man’s ribs, pleasantly warm blood spilling over his chilled fingers, soaking the cuff of his shirt a deep crimson. He could hear the elder policeman yelling at him, hear him calling for backup as he turned automatically, whipping his cane out haphazardly, catching him across the temple with a sickening crack. The man went down with a thud like a broken and discarded toy.

Arthur stood there, panting and shaking, the blood on his hands congealing and cooling with each passing second, more of the red liquid slowly soaking into the soles of his shoes as it spread outwards from the body of the younger cop. The cop he had killed.

Arthur’s breath caught in his chest as he crumpled back against the counter, the anxiety and horror remaining in his stomach even as he vomited into the sink. Shaking, he slid to the ground, a sob ripping from his throat that sounded more akin to the cry of a wounded animal than any noise a human would ever make.

“I’m not a murderer!” he blubbered, unable to comprehend nor process what his mind was telling him. It wasn’t possible, it just couldn’t be. “I’m not a murderer,” he repeated, as if pleading with the God that this nightmare somehow wasn’t real.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Arthur pressed his hands to his head, “I’m not a murderer!” he wailed again, slamming his fists against his temples, “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!”

But it made sense, didn’t it? If he had really been the one to kill those people, it would explain everything. The bruises he could never remember getting, the blood that he was sure wasn’t his but was still somehow on his clothes, the lapses in memory that had to be a result of more than just drunkenness, all of it. It explained the dreams and the memories and the images in his head that he could never understand and would never dare tell anyone else about for fear that they’d think him mad. It explained why the police were investigating him and why the profile fit and why so many witnesses had pointed him out. It explained the thoughts of violence and the things he couldn’t possibly have known like how the girl with the blue hair put up the most fight in the end and the black-haired girl with the glasses had lost her nice green knitted scarf while trying to run away. Trying to run away from him.

“No, no, no,” he whimpered, the truth cutting into him like a knife of its own. He had killed them. He had killed them in a blind rage the same way he had killed the young policeman just minutes ago. He was a murderer. He was worse than even his parents, who may have beaten him like savages in drunken rages of their own but had never killed anyone.

Hearing sirens, Arthur remembered numbly that one of the men had called for backup. When they found him like this, he knew he would have no excuse. He would spend the rest of his miserable life in prison. Arthur knew that he would never let that happen. He had vowed to himself long ago that he would never go back to that hell.

Making up his mind, Arthur slowly began to move, shuddering as he wrapped shaking fingers around the blood-specked gun of the man he had killed, tucking it into his belt. He didn’t have long. Walking on unsteady legs, he retrieved his laptop and, finding nothing better and not daring to enter the kitchen again, he placed it on his livingroom table. He tapped his finger spasmodically as he waited for it to boot up. As soon as it did, his fingers began flying, leaving scarlet smears across the plastic keys as he pulled up a recording program and started it, taking a step back so he was visible on the small screen.

His voice was shaky and high-pitched with fear, his chest fluttering up and down as tears dripped down his cheeks, “My name is Arthur Sherlock Alpine,” he began, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. He let out a small moan as he realized he had just streaked his face with blood. Arthur gave a shudder and forced himself to continue, fighting against the bile that rose in his throat. He didn’t have enough time, he could hear them coming up the stairs.

His breathing picked up as he began hyperventilating, gasping for air between words, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to do any of this, I didn’t know!” He pulled the gun from his belt, slamming his fist against his head furiously, bending double to try and collect himself. “I didn’t know!” he repeated frantically, glancing at his door fearfully before turning back to the computer, “I’m sorry! Please forgive me, please I didn’t know! I didn’t know it was me!” He broke off again as he struggled to speak through the roaring tide of emotions that threatened to explode like a bomb inside of him.

“I never wanted to hurt anyone! I didn’t want to kill anyone but I did and-” he stopped, unable to continue and what else was he supposed to say anyways? He could never make it up to the families whose children he had taken away. There were some things that words could just never make better and only actions could ever hope to mean anything.

“I’m sorry, Aunt Sam,” he whispered as he heard the door to his apartment smash against the wall, signalling the arrival of the men who would be there to take him away to a place he refused to return to. “I’m so so sorry.”

He stood to meet them.

“Drop your weapon!”

He didn’t.

“I said drop it!”

He raised his arm, his grip for once steady and certain. He didn’t get it past the height of his hip before the shot rang out.

The gun clattered against the floorboards as he crumpled. Despite the haze of pain and fear, the most prominent thing Arthur felt as he died was relief.

It was over. The nightmare was finally over.

Some wrongs can only be righted through action when words are no longer enough.

A young man strode purposefully down the crowded street, head held high, eyes bright with confidence. A heavy bag was slung across his shoulder but he was unhampered by the extra weight as he broke away from the rest of the populus, entering a series of narrow alleyways. Weaving his way easily through the maze of tight spaces that he was so familiar with, he smirked to himself, thoroughly pleased with his own resourcefulness.

Presently, he arrived at his destination. Kicking off of the wall, he hooked his fingers over the lower rungs of the old fire escape and used his weight to extend it to the ground in one fluid motion. Wiping his hands off on his jeans, he quickly rid his palms of any stray flecks of red paint. Cracking his knuckles, he set about clambering up the rickety structure. His footing was sure as he swung himself higher and higher, ignoring the whine and groan of the metal. He already knew that it was capable of taking his weight.

After reaching the top of the building, he paused to glance at his watch. He had made good time, just as planned. Adjusting his earbuds and selecting the proper playlist, he swung the heavy bag off of his shoulder. He pulled the zipper open smoothly and set about removing his most prized possession (besides himself, of course) piece by piece. His movements were careful, almost reverent as he set the individual parts in their place, a practice he had long since perfected. He was the best in his trade and he took pride in that fact. The man was no slacker. He did his job as required and he did it better than anyone else.

Music thrumming softly in his ears, he began assembling the item that let him be so good at what he did. He called her Heartbreaker, a personal little joke he had come up with years ago to amuse himself in case the job ever become monotonous. So far, it hadn’t.

His task complete, he hefted Heartbreaker and made his way to the edge of the building. Glancing at his watch, a smirk reclaimed his lips and he picked out his mark on the streets below with ease. The boy was in his late teens, back to him. An ample target. He aimed for the head instead. The cranium was always more effective and he knew he could make the shot. He didn't bother checking the wind as he adjusted Heartbreaker, pressing her buttstock firmly against his shoulder as he peered through the sight, quickly lining up the boy's shaggy-haired head and beanie between the crosshairs. He could probably knock the kid’s hat off if he felt like it.

Counting down the seconds until the perfect moment, his finger rested lightly against the trigger. He had a relaxation only perfected through time and experience, of which he had plenty. Just another few moments. A girl was approaching the mark, a teetering armload of books distracting her from where she was going. It was time. Compressing the trigger, he sent the red-tipped projectile whistling through the air. Satisfaction caused his grin to widen as the spray of red only he could see confirmed his success. He had managed to knock the hat off after all (not that he ever doubted he would), sending the two teenagers reeling into each other and scattering the girl’s books across the walkway.

His job was complete. Squatting, he began to disassemble Heartbreaker with practiced ease, once more assured of his own prowess or (as he preferred to call it) savoir faire. This was just the beginning of the story between the boy and girl, a story that he had started and they could take from there. It was no longer his problem if their relationship didn't work out. He had played his part.

Taking out an old pencil stub and a small, worn notebook, he flipped through the pages until he came to the most recent, the only one still half-filled. Adding another tally to the countless already there, he felt his satisfaction grow. Counting the few remaining sheets of blank, he realized he would have to get another book soon. This one would soon join the hundreds he had already filled back at his home over the thousands of years he had spent perfecting his trade. He had considered modernizing his system, especially after he had upgraded to Heartbreaker, but he found he preferred this one element of tradition.

“The love god claims another victim,” he mused to himself, “Few more like that and I could get the day off.” Hefting his bag, he drew a sharp breath, lip curling as the strap raked across his delicate, snow-white wings before settling comfortably between his shoulderblades. Stretching his arms above his head to loosen his muscles, he sighed contentedly, allowing himself a moment to relax before he ran off to his next assignment. He flared his wings, the feathers sparkling in the sun. It was nice to take a moment to preen. Checking his watch, he swung himself over the edge onto the fire escape, whistling along to the next song of his playlist, a favourite of his by Sam Cooke.

"So Cupid, draw back your bow,

And let your arrow go.

Straight to my lover's heart for me,

Nobody but me."