Purple skin

painted orange,

an empty husk

dressed like a man;

the world spins,

off balance,

staggering drunkenly

through empty space

while I search for its edge.

Blank eyes

hidden by stitched lids,

hands folded

over a still chest;

the sun burns

brighter yet,

indifferent rays

warming a hollow

for the dead.

White roses

brown and wilted,

a thousands farewells

on deaf ears;

the stars grow tired

and the clocks

tick, tick, tick.

while I feel it in my bones:

someday I will live again.

In truth every moment is a dying

Every moment is the end of your life

as who you where

and the beginning of your new life as how you choose to be

the secret to life is to die, die a lot

Don't let death be a one time thing

Don't wait until the end of your life

Die right now and in each moment you see you realize you're born again

you recreate yourself anew and the next version

of the greatest vision you ever held about who you are

That's the whole purpose of life

the first time i died

she told me about

her boyfriend.

he lived in sweden

where she was staying

for a year.

far away from me.

i felt bad for being angry,

it wasn't her fault

she left the country,

and it was surely a great

experience.

we were never official

but i was her friend.

we sat next to each other

on the bus.

and i would always watch her

trying to make her laugh

and wishing i could

be her laughter.

the first time i died

i was eleven

too young to die

but the perfect age

to be broken.

he said

you are the most

uninteresting

person

i know

and i sat there

and took it

but sis

when a man makes

you cry

march him down

to the couch

and get him the next flight

out

i wrote my first poem

right after i thought i died

ink pirouetted on the insides

of cigarette packs, ass floored

with a mind leaking out my ears

it started off with

“I wear hiking boots in my room”

and it hasn’t ended yet

Heh, that was a long time ago.

But then again, it wasn't that long ago.

Actually it hasn't even happened yet.

The first time I died, I found myself drowned,

a knife stabbed into my chest,

as I struggled to breath.

Blood dripped from my chest, flowing into the water,

like a shark had attacked me within the depths.

Then I was waking up again,

almost three hundred years before.

At first, I wondered if this was real.

But seeing the old presidents live in person

cemented the fact that it was.

See death doesn't work on the linear timeline.

Once you die, you jump to somewhere else on the timeline.

It could be the future

the past

the present

Anytime, anywhere, with any looks that one could imagine.

That's what I learned,

upon my first death.

The first time I died, the last thing I saw was my brother.

I felt the hot pain in my back as I fell face first into the field of flowers we used to play in and reached out in hopes that he would help me.

I must've forgotten that he was the one who killed me in the first place.

And when questioned about me he claimed he knew not where I was, so now he is lost.

A soul left to wander in exile for the rest of his years.

It was normal Wednesday night.

The Earth didn’t break in half, the sky didn’t fall down and the wave didn’t hit my house.

But it might as well have.

If you’ve dealt with depression you may know this feeling, if you haven’t you can’t possibly imagine it.

I didn’t know at first what happenned. The light has gone and I was surrounded by the sudden darkness. And the Sun has been rising since then but it stopped reaching me. I found myself in a constant shadow.

And you know, it’s been hard before but I’ve always had this childish fire of hope inside of me - the one that was getting me through the day and making me believe that things will get better.

But the matches were taken away from me and I cannot light it up anymore.

It takes everything in me to get up each day. Sometimes I don’t. I just let things happen to me. I stopped living, I started existing.

I go out to people and I’m the life of the party.

Then the party is over and so am I.

I try to catch breath but I have all these worries on my chest. I try to sleep but I don’t want the morning to come. I try to think about future but I can’t even imagine tomorrow.

And it’s another sleepless night when I try to rewind my footsteps and see when did I turn into the wrong way. The way that led me slowly and quietly out of my life. I think of that day.

It was normal Wednesday night.

Only 2 pages in that book remain, thinking about it nearly drives me insane.

We were young, only 6 years old but those words stung.

You were taken away too soon, every night I look to the moon.

As if there were a way to say goodbye, as here I lie.

You were only 2, I begged for someone to tell me it wasn't true.

My first death, was the day you took your final breath.