note to self –

you are not allowed to die by your own hand.
not like this.
no way.
it may be talking to you, but the raspy inner voice you have is full of shit.
they may not be talking to you at the moment, but your family would be devastated.
your brother may say he hates you and doesn’t care if he sees you again, but that’s what brothers do sometimes, right?
you miss him, don’t you…
you do. because you’re certain that he understands how this feels.
and you swore you ran out of tears, but they’re here again.
you don’t care what has happened and how much time has passed,
you just want to see him again.
even if he tells you what a waste of space you are.
you already know!
you just want him to hold you for a bit and tell you it’s going to be ok and that you are worthwhile and that your past doesn’t have to define you.
in that lovely, sardonic way of his.
you miss your little brother desperately and you want him back.

Ilene, you chased him away.
and he has no time for your shit anymore.

you’re feeling something for the first time in days.
and it’s horrible,
but the anguish wouldn’t end with your heartbeat.
no, it would only be transmitted to those who knew you.
liked you.
loved you.
cared for you.
and you’d become yet another unanswered question.
another face frozen in a contrived smile.
another prickly pile of what-ifs.

so, don’t do it.
even if the voices say you should.
even if it seems like a fitting end for you.
even if it may offer relief.



Vision doubles.
Cut in line.
Sinus trouble.
Out in time.

Formes Frustes – Vacant Stall and Stare (2014)

Beige waiting room
And an impending sense of doom.
Droplets crash into tense thighs.
Lachrymose eyes,
Brimming with saline imply
It really is high time I cried.

Hushed, judgmental tone,
Pretends to play with phone.
Think of last time.
Kicking and screaming
For a sense of meaning
Or something of that kind.

Uncomfortable mindframe.
Desk jockey calls my name.
I crawl.
Flimsy veneer of self-esteem,
I fumble with phosphenes.
More tears fall.

I never know what to say,
These things never go my way.
But, for some reason, I still try.
I will take this seat
And not look at my feet
If you don’t look straight at me when I cry.

Formes Frustes – High Time I Cried (2014)

George R.R. Martin's fan letter to Marvel


Last night, as you’re well aware, the fourth season of Game of Thrones came to a close, and everyone went bananas. And perhaps, somewhere, some future literary superstar penned a fan letter to George R.R. Martin, telling him what an inspiration his work is. It’s not too much of a stretch — presumably in preparation for the finale, iO9 dug up that great fan letter that young Master Martin wrote to Marvel’s Stan Lee and Jack Kirby, raving over the greatness of a recent Fantastic Four issue. Such a missive is a blast to read now; it’s also but one example of the fine tradition of superstars who reveal themselves (either before their own fame or after it) to be super-fans.

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