Say to me, say to me that you need help, you can’t do it alone, that there is something going on in your mind and it doesn’t want to quit. These I much rather than

shattered glass     sliced skin     one missing chair     pills strewn in the bed sheets     an appointment with fire     shower room untouched     the noose of the frayed rope pulled snug     crumpled tear-stained note     hasty leavings     plucked dandelion head     shrinking inward     a voice that dies in the throat     agreeing with twisted lies     not moving at all     hello synonymous to goodbye



I am clay

Shaky and broken in every resolve

With this I’ve always known that

I am nothing I am nothing I am nothing


But this is what You do

Took me into Your loving arms

Sculptured me with solid gold and relentless stone

Whispered behold, the one fashioned after Me


Whisper and share what lies at the back of your mind, the things that keep it running.

Do you ever wonder if this is the year that the sun will fall from the golden sky, or that from this dismal pit blooms a flower of darkness? Is there a blood other than red coursing through the frail veins of another, are your eyes made of broken glass and your arms, grafted skin. A monster in the pool of reflection, a hand that is gifted in burning, is a shattered brain is worth saving. A whirlpool pulling you six feet under, creaky door left ajar for no one has made a single attempt to move. Have you ever felt like drowning in the lungs you try to breathe in, or considered that this earth is not your home, that so much is lost in not knowing and being terribly afraid. Are we but empty noise, a particle in view of entirety. Between reaching out for a cloud and burying a dying star, which would you opt for?


Let’s go for a road trip, he says and this is known: they do. Cue the abundant sands and the majestic roars of the ocean, where its foamy currents embrace the shore. Tiny critters hiding in uneven pockets of the ground, the occasional cry of the gull heard.

What do you see, she asks quietly, out of the blue, with eyes that peer ahead.

With a gentle lilt his voice colours the atmosphere: hope and possibilities, courage to go on, that there are things bigger than me.

And what, of you? he echoes. What do you see?

With a smile sweet, she blinks deliberately and admits: despair and futility, how quick and easy would it be to drown.

She turns away, as though ashamed, and he, saddened that the thing he much loved could be seen as a disaster for the other, that where he saw beauty, another could only think of the end.