I am 21 years old and it feels like everyone I know wants

          to hurt themselves.

And there are some days my name is at the top of that list.

They ask me why – why should I keep living?

          And I really don’t have an answer for them.

I wish I did. I don’t know what else to say.

I am 21 years old and everyone I know wants to kill themselves,

          but they all claim no one understands

while standing together on the same ledge, practically holding hands.

The image of their brains on the pavement is like a siren song.

          So entranced,

they don’t notice the line forming behind them.

I am 21 years old and everyone I know

          thinks I don’t know what they’re doing

when they walk down the highway in the dark, wearing black.

We just had another funeral on Thursday.

          No note.

I don’t even know where he got the gun.

I think he knew any note he could have written would have been

          our manifesto – the catalyst

everyone I know has been waiting for.

I am just 21 years old and I want to kill myself too. But I can’t stand

          the idea of my mother

wondering where I got the gun. Why I didn’t leave a note.

Maybe this was his message to us, the curse

          of knowing every painful emotion

our loved ones will go through when we leave them.

And if God really doesn’t exist, I’m going to feel

          pretty goddamn stupid

when I kill myself. So that’s what I tell them:

When they ask me why they should stay alive

          in this shit-eating world

where they can’t even afford groceries, let alone compassion.

I am just 21 years old, I tell them. I’m no psychic.

          But I know there is nothing waiting for you

on the other end of suicide. That much, I can tell you.

I know your mother is going to bawl her eyes out

          and I’m going to have to watch.

And for that, I will never forgive you.

I know you won’t be around to enjoy

          the peace and quiet

you yearned for. You will simply be gone.

I know my life will never be the same without you.

          That’s about the most I can give you.

Please, please take care of yourself. I don’t know what else to say.

When I was young,

I thought I could love the moon.

I thought my rib-cage was large enough –

arms could be long enough –

to wrap around the whole of him

and keep him close to me.

But I am a werewolf,

and he only ever brought out

the worst in me.

I write because I am fascinated by the English language. I love the way March 4th is the only date that is also a sentence. I am enthralled by how many strange and luminescent galaxies can exist inside of one skull, and how blessed we are that those authors choose to share those galaxies with us in the confines of a few hundred pages. I am comforted by the way a tree can look at a book and know that there is life after death. I think it’s funny that we create words that we are not allowed to use, and I reject those rules on principle. I love how sometimes the words we specifically don’t write can be just as poignant as the words we do.

I know that language is a flawed system and that there are more prestigious job opportunities for lawyers and doctors, but I am a writer because we need writers. We, as human beings, are just poems with feet. Each of us is a story that has never been told and it is our living-breathing right to tell our story – to be that poem.

I write because there is no word in the English language to describe how easy it is to fall in love with sadness, if only because it will never leave you. I write because there are an infinite more things you can do with words than anything else that exists. I write because I believe that the right sentence spoken or read at the right time can change lives. I write because I have to. I write because I can be stripped of my possessions, my hope, my name, my dignity, my courage – even my life, but no one can keep me from words.

We are a speck of dust on a freckle of the universe, living on borrowed time and chemical reactions - and I cannot afford to waste my life not writing.

Well, it’s a yearning.

It's warmth, all over, and a tingling sensation

Like menthol or cinnamon on your tongue.

You will feel like your molecules

Are smoldering and realize

There is magma deep inside of you.

It has been there since the dawn of time.

You will want to erupt.

Your skin will crackle with heat,

Sensitive to the touch.

But you must be patient:

Your time is coming.

I loved him frantically;

a moth drawn to the light bulb,

confusing his warm glow for the sun

When he left, it was dark for a long time

but I taught myself how to

love with the lights off

This is a new life

and I’m not an insect

anymore

Today: You'll read a horoscope. It'll list generalized yet insightful traits of your personality. It'll also recommend that you should be suspicious. You'll dismiss this horoscope.

Tomorrow: You'll wonder if  your horoscope will be true. You'll analyze your behavior for evidence of predetermined personality traits. You'll realize you're being suspicious.