Letter Without Address

Eliza wrote about how she has a dream of having a collection of letters from a bunch of different people, sort of open letters to anyone who might be struggling with suicidal thoughts. Letters without address, meant for anyone who needs them. I don’t know if this qualifies — I’m definitely no Eliza — but…


To whoever you are, whatever you’ve done:

I dance with fire. I dance, and everyone around me burns trying to drag me away from the flame. No matter how cold they get, or how many buckets of water they try to bring, often it just makes the flame seem warmer, that much more enticing. The more they try, the more of a failure I realize that I am. And I can’t escape the fact that if I just stepped into the fire, then they wouldn’t be rushing to and fro, worrying. I can’t help but wonder if all I am is a burden… Or maybe even a monster. I don’t know about you, but as for me, I’ve gotten very good at using people. I’m not good at much else; but you don’t have to be if you know the right things to say.

It scares me sometimes. And at every encouragement, every eager entreaty, every assurance that yes, I am worth it — at every one, I wonder. Do they know? Can they? If they can’t see the monster inside, the pathetic little beast that I am, how can they pass any kind of fair judgement? And often, I’ll smile at the well wishes, shake my head, and then stash them away in that deep, deep place in my heart where bright things still dare to live, but so rarely dare to come out. I think a part of me is hoping that if I save up enough of those, I’ll be able to afford a highway between that bright place, and the world outside.

Maybe whoever’s reading this can beat me to it. Whatever kindness I have, is yours. Death is always there. Life? Not so much. Give Life a chance to prove you wrong. Give others a chance to make their own choices — yes, even about you and your worth. If they hate you, let them hate you. If they love you, let them love you. And if you’re completely alone, then forget about yourself for a moment; Be for someone else what you always wished someone could be for you.

And maybe, embrace a platitude or two.

Good luck

The Poet in Someplace

There once was a poet in Someplace
Who was a bit all over the place:
Brain scattered here and there,
Grey matter everywhere;
But, she at least managed to save some face!


There was a policeman in Someplace
Hard on the heels of his case
His culprit was there
His gaze met her stare
As she kept with the mortician’s pace.


There was a mortician in Someplace
His patient looked done by a mace
But just a gunshot
More often than not
And someone’s left cleaning the place.


There was someone’s sister in Someplace
Whose tears streamed on down her face
Somebody told her
It wasn’t murder
Her sister was done with this place.

I had started this to make fun of myself. It was to be just a little, self-mocking limerick. Then it flowed into a morbid pun, and from there it became it’s own, more serious, story…


I found her on a rooftop
Waiting for the sun to rise;
She was singing softly,
And the horizon never left her eyes.

She suggested that I sit with her,
And I could find no reason to say no.
I hadn’t watched the sun rise
Since I had left my home.

But that would never be home again,
Not without my wife.
Nothing was the same
Since she took her own life.

So I sit and watch the sun rise
With one of those creatures that I blame:
A vampire singing softly,
“Please don’t take my sunshine away…”


I love irony. This poem came from one of my out-of-left-field daydream stories that I almost never tell, involving a vampire trying to commit suicide by sunrise, being joined by a vampire hunter with a personal aversion to suicide. At first he mostly sticks around to make sure that she dies, one way or another, but as the time crawls by and it becomes clear she’s given up on her “life” — with just one last wish to see the sun again — he becomes eager to save it.

Now, I like her. There’s something about a vampire singing “You Are My Sunshine” as she sighingly waits for the sun to rise that I just find terribly appealing. So, I decided to give her a name. As I understand it, the name “Vivian” has its origins in a Latin word meaning “alive.” Have I mentioned that I love irony?

A Thousand Cuts

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Death by a thousand questions,
Sorrow by a thousand fears;
Flooded by a thousand confessions;
Drowned in a thousand tears.

Destruction for a thousand days,
Confusion for a thousand years;
And not a single answer,
Were you to consult a thousand seers.

Anguish for a thousand nights;
Torment but forever.
A thousand pieces lost;
And none are ever pieced together.

We take a thousand worries
Home with us instead,
And hide behind a thousand furies
Deep inside our head.